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Old People and the Things that Pass 



THE BOOKS OF THE 
SMALL SOULS 

By 

LOUIS COUPERUS 

Translated by 

ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA de MATTOS 
1. SMALL SOULS. 

IL THE LATER LIFE. 

III. THE TWILIGHT OF THE SOULS. 

IV. DR. ADRIAAN. 

\Later. 




OLD PEOPLE AND THE 
THINGS THAT PASS 


BY 

LOUIS COUPERUS 


TRANSLATED BY 

ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS 



NEW YORK 

DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 
1918 



Copyright, 1918 ^ 

By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INC. ^ 


MAR 27 IS18 




©0.4494347 

''U^ T/ 




Old People and the Things that Pass 


T 

■-ii 




# 





CHAPTER I 


Steyn’s deep bass voice was heard in the passage: 

“ Come, Jack, come along, dog! Are you com¬ 
ing with your master? ” 

The terrier gave a loud, glad bark and came 
rushing madly down the stairs, till he seemed to 
be tumbling over his own paws. 

“ Oh, that voice of Steyn’s I ” Ottilie hissed be¬ 
tween her teeth angrily and turned a number of 
pages of her novel. 

Charles Pauws glanced at her quietly, with his 
little smile, his laugh at Mamma’s ways. He was 
sitting with his mother after dinner, sipping his cup 
of coffee before going on to Elly. 

Steyn went out with Jack; the evening silence 
settled upon the little house and the gas hummed in 
the impersonal and unhomely sitting-room. Charles 
Pauws looked down at the tips of his boots and 
admired their fit. 

“Where has Steyn gone?” asked Mamma; and 
her voice grumbled uneasily. 

“ Gone for a walk with Jack,” said Charles 
Pauws. 

He was called Lot^ at home; his voice sounded 
soft and soothing. 

^Pronounced “Lo,” as in the French “ Chariot.” 


2 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


“ He’s gone to his woman I ” snarled Ottllie. 

Lot made a gesture of weariness: 

“ Come, Mamma,” he said, “ be calm now and 
don’t think about that scene. Pm going on to Elly 
presently; meantime I want to sit cosily with you 
for a bit. Steyn’s your husband, after all. You 
mustn’t always be bickering with him and saying and 
thinking such things. You were just like a little fury 
again. It brings wrinkles, you know, losing your 
temper like that.” 

“ I am an old woman.” 

“ But you’ve still got a very soft little skin.” 

Ottilie smiled; and Lot stood up: 

“ There,” he said, “ give me a kiss. . . . Won’t 
you? Must I give you one? You angry little 
Mummy! . . . And what was it about? About 
nothing. At least, I can’t remember what it was all 
about. I should never be able to analyse it. And 
that’s always the way. . . . How do I come 

to be so unruffled with such a little fury of a 
Mamma?” 

“ If you imagine that your father used to keep 
unruffled!” 

Lot laughed that little laugh of his and did not 
reply. Mrs. Steyn de Weert went on reading more 
peacefully; she sat in front of her book like a 
child. She was a woman of sixty, but her blue eyes 
were like a child’s, full of a soft beauty, gentle 
and innocent; and her voice, a little high-toned, 
always sounded like a child’s, had just sounded like 


THINGS THAT PASS 3 

the voice of a naughty child. Sitting, small and 
upright, in her chair, she read on, attentively, calm¬ 
ing herself because Lot had spoken so calmly and 
kissed her so comfortingly. The gas hummed and 
Lot drank his coffee and, looking at his boots, won¬ 
dered why he was going to be married. He did 
not think he was a marrying man. He was young 
still: thirty-eight; he really looked much younger; 
he made enough money with his articles to risk it, 
frugal-fashion, with what Elly would get from 
Grandpapa Takma; but all the same he did not think 
that he was of the marrying kind. His liberty, his 
independence, his selfish power to amuse himself as 
he pleased were what he loved best; and marrying 
meant giving one’s self over, bound hand and foot, 
to a woman. He was not passionately in love with 
Elly: he thought her an intelligent, artistic little 
thing; and he was really not doing it for what she 
would inherit from Grandpapa Takma. Then why 
was he doing it, he asked himself, as he had asked' 
himself day after day, during that week which had 
followed on his proposal. 

“ Mamma, can you tell me? Why did I propose 
to Elly?” 

Ottilie looked up. She was accustomed to queer 
and humorous questions from Lot and she used 
to answer him in the same tone, as far as she was 
able; but this question made her feel a prick of 
jealousy, a prick that hurt very much, physically, like 
a thorn in the flesh. 


4 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


“ Why you proposed to Elly? I don’t know. We 
always do things without knowing why.” 

Her voice sounded soft and melancholy, a little 
sulky after the naughty child’s voice of just now. 
Had she not lost everything that she had ever pos¬ 
sessed? Would she not lose Lot, have to part with 
him to Elly ... as she had had to part with every¬ 
thing and everybody? . . . 

“ How seriously you answered. Mamma! That’s 
not like you.” 

“ Mayn’t I be serious too, once in a way? ” 

“ Why so sad and serious and tempersome lately? 
Is it because I am going to be married? ” 

“ Perhaps.” 

“ But you’re fond of Elly ...” 

“ Yes, she’s very nice.” 

“ The best thing we can do is to go on living 
together; Elly’s fond of you too. I’ve talked to 
Steyn about it.” 

Lot called his step-father, his second step-father, 
Steyn, without anything else, after having called 
his first, when he was still a boy, “ Mr.” Trevelley. 
Ottilie had been married three times. 

“ The house is too small,” said Mamma, 
“ especially if you go having a family soon.” 

And yet she thought: 

“ If we remain together, I sha’n’t lose Lot 
entirely; but I shall never be able to get on 
with my daughter-in-law, especially if there are 
children.” 


s 


THINGS THAT PASS 

‘‘A family?” he echoed. 

“ Children.” 

“Children?” 

“ Well, married people have had children before 
now! ” 

“ Our family has lasted long enough. I shall be 
in no hurry about children.” 

“ And, when your wife hasn’t you with her, what 
has she, if she hasn’t any children? It’s true, you’re 
both so clever. I’m only a stupid woman; my child¬ 
ren have often been a comfort to me . . . ” 

“ When you were able to spoil them.” 

“ It’s not for you to reproach me with that! ” 

“ I’m not reproaching you.” 

“ As to living together. Lot,” said Mamma, sadly, 
in a child’s coaxing voice, casting up her blue child- 
eyes, “ / should be quite willing, if Elly is and if she 
promises to take things as she finds them. I shall 
feel very lonely without you. But, if there were any 
objections, I might go over to England. I have my 
two boys there. And Mary is coming home from 
India this year.” 

Lot knitted his brows and put his hand up to his 
fair hair: it was very neat, with a parting. 

“ Or else . . I might go and look up Ottilie 

at Nice.” 

“No, Mamma, not that I” said Lot, almost 
angrily. 

“Why not?” exclaimed Mrs. Steyn de Weert, 
raising her voice. “She’s my child, surely?” 


6 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


“ Yes,” Lot admitted, quickly recovering his com¬ 
posure. “But ...” 

“ But what? Surely, my own child . . . ? ’L 

“But it would be very silly of you to go to 
Ottilie.” 

“ Why, even if we have quarrelled at times ...” 

“ It would never do; you can’t get on with her. 
If you go to Ottilie, I won’t get married. Besides, 
Steyn has something to say in the matter.” 

“ I’m so fond of Nice,” said Mrs. Steyn de Weert; 
and her child-voice sounded almost plaintive. “ The 
winters there are so delightful. . . . But perhaps 
it would be difficult for me . . . to go there . . . 
because Ottilie behaves so funnily. If it could be 
managed, I would rather live with you. Lot. If 
Elly is willing. Perhaps we could have a little 
larger house than this. Do you think we could 
afford it? Stay alone with Steyn I will not. That’s 
settled. That’s quite settled.” 

“ Mummy darling ...” 

Lot’s voice sounded full of pity. After her last 
determined words. Mamma had big tears in her blue 
child-eyes, tears which did not fall but which gave a 
sorrowful gleam to the naughty look in her face. 
Then, with a sudden short sigh, she took up her book 
and was silent and pretended to read. There was 
something resigned about her attitude and, at the 
same time, something obstinate, the constant attitude 
of a naughty child, a spoilt child that persisted in do¬ 
ing, quietly and silently, what it wanted to. Lot, with 


THINGS THAT PASS 7 

his coffee-cup in his hand, his laugh about his mouth, 
studied Mamma; after his compassion, he just sat 
and studied her. Yes, she must have been very 
pretty; the uncles always said, a little doll. She was 
sixty now and no longer made any pretence to beauty; 
but she was still charming in a child-like and doll- 
like fashion. She had the wrinkles and the deeper 
furrows of an elderly woman; but the skin of her 
forehead and cheeks was still white and soft, with¬ 
out a blemish, tenderly veined at the temples. She 
had become very grey; but, as she had been very 
fair and her hair was soft and curly, it sometimes 
looked as if she had remained fair; and, simply 
though that hair appeared to be done, fastened up 
with one quick movement and pinned, there were 
still some almost childish little locks curling at the 
temples and in the neck. Her short, slim figure 
was almost that of a young woman; her hands 
were small and pretty; in fact, there was a pretti¬ 
ness about her whole person; and pretty above all 
were the young, blue eyes. Lot, who smiled as he 
looked at his mother, saw in her a woman over 
whom an emotional life, a life of love and hate, 
had passed without telling very much upon her. 
And yet Mamma had been through a good deal, 
with her three husbands, all three of whom she had 
loved, all three of whom, without exception, she now 
hated. A butterfly she had certainly been, but just 
an unthinking butterfly, simply because her nature 
was a butterfly’s. She had loved much, but even a 


8 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


deep passion would not have made her life or her 
different; naturally and unconsciously she was in 
headstrong opposition to everything. She had never 
been economical; and yet her house was never com¬ 
fortable, nor had she ever spent much on dress, un¬ 
consciously despising elegance and comfort and feel¬ 
ing that she attracted through herself and not 
through any artistic surroundings. Mamma’s get-up 
was like nothing on earth. Lot thought; the only cosy 
room in the house was his. Mamma, mad on read¬ 
ing, read very modern French novels, which she did 
not always understand, despite a life of love and 
hatred, having remained innocent in many things and 
totally ignorant of the darker phases of passion. 
Then Lot would see, while she was reading, that she 
was surprised and did not understand; a simple, 
childish wonder would come into her eyes; she never 
dared ask Lot for an explanation. . . . 

Lot got up; he was going to Elly that evening. 
He kissed his mother, with his constant little laugh 
of silent amusement, his little laugh at Mamma. 

“ You never used to go out every evening,” said 
Mamma, reproachfully; and she felt the thorn in 
her heart’s flesh. 

“ Pm in love now,” said Lot, calmly. “ And 
engaged. And a fellow must go and see his girl, 
you know. . . . Will you think over my question, 
why I really proposed to Elly . . . and will you 
manage without me this evening? ” 

“ I shall have to do that many evenings. . , 


THINGS THAT PASS 9 

Mamma pretended to be absorbed In her French 
novel, but, as soon as Lot had left the room, she 
put down the book and looked round, vaguely, with 
a look of helplessness in her blue eyes. She did not 
move when the maid brought in the tea-tray and 
kettle; she sat staring before her, across her book. 
The water sang its bubbling song; outside the 
windows, after the last summer heat, the first cold 
wind blew with its wonted plaint. Ottilie felt her¬ 
self abandoned: oh, how little of everything re¬ 
mained! There she was now, there she was, the 
old, grey-haired woman! What was there left of 
her life? And yet, strange to say, her three hus¬ 
bands were all three alive: Lot had been lately to 
Brussels with Elly, to see his father; Trevelley was 
spending a life of pleasure in London: when all was 
said, she had liked him the best. Her three English 
children lived in England, felt more English than 
Dutch; Ottilie was leading her curious, unconven¬ 
tional life at Nice: the whole family cried scandal 
about it; and Lot she was now about to lose. He 
had always stayed with her so nicely, though he 
went abroad pretty frequently; and he had hardly 
any friends at the Hague and never went to the 
Witte.' Now he was going to be married; he was 
no longer young, for a young man; he must be thirty- 
eight, surely? To occupy herself a little now, beside 
her lonely tea-tray and bubbling water, she began 

^ The Witte and the Plaats are the two leading clubs at the 
Hague. 


10 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

to count her children’s ages on her tiny fingers. 
Ottilie, Lot’s sister, her eldest, forty-one: heavens, 
how old she was growing! The English ones, as 
she always called them—“ my three English child¬ 
ren”—Mary, thirty-five; John, thirty-two; even her 
handsome Hugh was thirty: heavens above, how 
old they were growing! And, once she was busy 
calculating ages, to amuse herself, she reckoned out 
that old Mamma would now soon be—let’s see- 
yes, she would be ninety-seven. Old Mr. Takma, 
Elly’s grandpapa, was only a year or two younger; 
and, when she thought of him, Ottilie reflected that 
it was very strange that Mr. Takma had always 
been so nice to her, as though it were really true 
what people used to whisper, formerly, when people 
still interested themselves in the family. So curious, 
those two old people: they saw each other almost 
every day; for Papa Takma was hale and still went 
out often, always walking the short distance from 
the Mauritskade to the Nassaulaan and crossing the 
razor-back bridge with rare vigour. Yes . . .j 
and then Sister Therese, in Paris, eight years older 
than herself, must be sixty-eight; and the brothers: 
Daan, in India,' seventy; Harold, seventy-three; 
Anton, seventy-five; while Stefanie, the only child of 
Mamma’s first marriage and the only De Laders, 
was getting on for seventy-seven. She, Ottilie, the 
youngest, felt that all those others were very old; 
and yet she was old too: she was sixty. It was all 


^ Dutch East Indies: Java. 



THINGS THAT PASS n 

a matter of comparison, growing old, different ages; 
but she had always felt it so: that she, the youngest, 
was comparatively young and always remained 
younger than the others, than all the others. She 
had to laugh, secretly, when Stefanie kept on saying: 

“At our age . . 

Why, Stefanie was seventy-seven! There was 
a difference—rather!—between sixty and seventy- 
seven. But she shrugged her shoulders: what did it 
matter? It was all over and so long ago. There 
she sat now, an old, grey-haired woman, and the 
aftermath of life dragged on and the loneliness 
increased daily, even though Steyn was here still: 
there he was, coming in. Where on earth did he 
go to every evening? She heard the fox-terrier 
barking in the passage and her husband’s deep, bass 
voice: 

“Hush, Jack! Quiet, Jack! . . 

Oh, that voice, how she hated it! 

What had she, whom had she left? She had five 
children, but only Lot with her; and he went abroad 
so often and was now going to be married: oh, how 
jealous it made her! Ottilie she never saw nowa¬ 
days; Ottilie didn’t care for her mother; she sang 
at concerts and had made a name for herself: she 
had a glorious voice; but she certainly behaved very 
strangely: Stefanie spoke of her as “ lost.” Mary 
was married, in India,' and her two English boys 
were in London: oh, how she sometimes longed for 


^ British India. 


12 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


Hugh! Which of her children was any use or 
comfort to her, except that dear Lot? And Lot 
was going to be married and he was asking her, 
his mother, who would miss him so, why he was 
going to be married, why! Of course, he was only 
joking, really; but perhaps it was also serious in 
part. Did people ever know anything? . . . Did 
they know why they did a thing ... in their im¬ 
pulsiveness. She had married three times. . . . 
Perhaps Ottilie was right after all? But no, there 
was the world, there were people, even though 
neither the world nor people had interested them¬ 
selves in the family of late years; but still there 
they were; and you couldn’t act as Ottilie did, with¬ 
out making yourself altogether impossible. That 
was why she, Mamma, had married, had married 
three times. Perhaps she ought never to have mar¬ 
ried at all: it would have been better for a heap 
of things, a heap of people. . . . The old life was 
all gone. It had vanished, as if it had never existed. 
And yet it had existed and, when it passed, had left 
much behind it, but nothing except melancholy 
ghosts and shadows. Yes, this evening she was in 
a serious mood and felt like thinking, a thing which 
otherwise she did as seldom as possible: what good 
did thinking do? When she had thought, in her 
life, she had never thought to any practical pur¬ 
pose. When she had yielded to impulse, things had 
been worse still. What was the good of wanting to 
live, when nevertheless your life was mapped out 


THINGS THAT PASS 13 

for you by things stronger than yourself that slum¬ 
bered in your blood? 

Ottilie gave herself up to her French novel, for 
Steyn de Weert had entered the room, with Jack 
leaping in front of him. And any one who had 
seen Mamma a moment ago and saw her now would 
have noticed this phenomenon, that Mamma became 
much older as soon as her husband entered. The 
plump cheeks contracted nervously and the lines 
round the nose and mouth grew deeper. The little 
straight nose stuck out more sharply, the forehead 
frowned angrily. The fingers, which were tearing 
the pages of a novel anyhow with a hairpin, 
trembled; and the page was torn awry. The back 
became rounder, like that of a cat assuming the 
defensive. She said nothing, but poured out the 
tea. 

“ Coosh! ” she said to the dog. 

And, glad that the dog came to her, she patted 
him on the head with a half-caress; and the fox- 
terrier, giving a last sharp bark, spun round upon 
himself and, very suddenly, nestled down on Ottilie’s 
skirt, with a deep sigh. Steyn de Weert, sitting 
opposite her, drank his tea. It appeared strange 
that they should be man and wife, for Mamma now 
certainly looked her age and Steyn seemed almost 
young. He was a tall fellow, broad-shouldered, not 
more than just fifty, with a handsome, fresh- 
coloured, healthy face, the face of a strong out- 
of-doors man, calm in glance and movement. The 


14 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


fact that, years ago, he had thrown away his life, 
from a sense of honour, upon a woman much older 
than himself had afterwards inspired him with an 
indifference that ceased to reckon what might still 
be in store for him. What was spoilt was spoilt, 
squandered for good, irretrievably. There was the 
open air, which was cool and fresh; there was shoot¬ 
ing; there was a drink, when he wanted one; there 
were his old friends, dating back to the time when 
he was an officer in the dragoons. Beyond these 
there were the little house and this old woman: he 
accepted them into the bargain, because it couldn’t 
be helped. In externals he did, as far as possible, 
what she wanted, because she could be so temper- 
some and was so obstinate; but his cool stubborn¬ 
ness was a silent match for hers. Lot was a capital 
fellow, a little weak and unexpected and effeminate; 
but he was very fond of Lot: he was glad that Lot 
lived with them; he had given Lot one of the best 
rooms in the house to work in. For the rest ... 
for the rest, there were other things; but they were 
no concern of anybody. Hang it all, he w^as a 
young man still, even though his thick hair was 
beginning to turn grey! His marriage had come 
about through a point of honour; but his wife was 
old, she was very old. The thing was really rather 
absurd. He would never make a hell of his life, 
as long as he still felt well and strong. With a good 
dose of indifference you can shake off everything. 

It was this indifference of his which irritated his 


THINGS THAT PASS 


15 

wife, till she felt as nervous as a cat when he did 
no more than enter the room. He had not spoken 
a word, sat drinking his tea, reading the newspaper 
which he had brought with him. In the small living- 
room, where the gas hummed and the wind rattled 
the panes, the fox-terrier sometimes snorted in 
dreams that made him groan and moan on the 
trailing edge of his mistress’ dress. 

“ Coosh! ” she said. 

And for the rest neither of them spoke, both sat 
reading, one her book, the other his evening-paper. 
And these two people, whose lives had been welded 
together by civil contract, because of the man’s 
feelings of conventional honesty and his sense of 
not being able to act otherwise as a man of honour, 
these two had once, years ago, twenty years ago, 
longed passionately, the man for the woman and 
the woman for the man. When Steyn de Weert 
was a first lieutenant, a good-looking fellow, just 
turned thirty, he had met Mrs. Trevelley, without 
knowing her age. Besides, what did age matter 
when he set eyes upon a woman so ravishingly beau¬ 
tiful to his quick desire that he had at once, at the 
first moment that he saw her, felt the blood flaming 
in his veins and thought: 

“ That woman I must have! . . . ” 

At that time, though already forty, she was a 
woman so full of blossoming prettiness that she was 
still known as the beautiful Lietje. She was small, 
but perfect in shape and particularly charming in 


16 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

feature, charming in the still very young lines of 
throat and breast, creamy white, with a few pale- 
gold freckles; charming with blue eyes of innocence 
and very fair, soft, wavy hair; charmingly half¬ 
woman and half-child, moulded for love, who seemed 
to exist only that she might rouse glowing desires. 
When Steyn de Weert saw her thus for the first 
time, in some ultra-modern Hague drawing-room 
of the Dutch-Indian set, she was married to her 
second husband, that half-Englishman, Trevelley, 
who was supposed to have made money in India; 
and Steyn had seen her the mother of three biggish 
children: a girl of fifteen and two boys a little 
younger; but the enamoured dragoon had refused 
to believe that, by her first marriage, with Pauws, 
from whom she had been divorced because of 
Trevelley, she had a daughter at the Conservatoire 
at Liege and a son of eighteen at home I The 
beautiful Lietje? She had married very young, in 
India, and she was still the beautiful Lietje. Such 
big children? Was that woman forty? The young 
officer had perhaps hesitated a moment, tried, now 
that he knew so much, to view Mrs. Trevelley with 
other eyes; but, when he looked in hers and saw 
that she desired him as he did her, he forgot every¬ 
thing. Why not cull a moment of happiness? What 
was an instant of love with a still seductive and 
beautiful woman? A triumph for a week, a month, 
a couple of months; and then each would go a 
different way. 


THINGS THAT PASS 


17 

That was how he had thought at the time; but 
now, now he was sitting here, because that bounder 
of a Trevelley, who wanted to get rid of Ottilie, 
had taken advantage of their relations to create a 
scandal and, after a pretence at a duel, to insist on 
a divorce; because all the Hague had talked about 
Ottilie, when she was left standing alone with a 
lover; and because he, Steyn, was an honest chap 
after all: that, that was why he was sitting here, 
with that old woman opposite him. Not a word 
was uttered between them; they drank their tea; 
the tray was removed; Jack dreamed and moaned; 
the wind howled. The pages followed in quick 
succession under Ottilie’s fingers; and Steyn read 
the Manchurian war-news and the advertisements, 
the advertisements and the war-news. The room 
around them, married though they were, looked as 
it had always looked, impersonal and unhomely; 
the clock ticked on and on, under its glass shade. 
It looked like a waiting-room, that drawing-room: 
a waiting-room where, after many things that had 
passed, two people sat waiting. Sat waiting . . 
for what? For the end that was so slow in coming, 
for the final death. 

Steyn restrained himself and read through the 
advertisements once more. But his wife, suddenly 
shutting up her book, said, abruptly: 

“ Frans!’’ 

“Eh?” 

“ I was talking to Lot just now.” 


i8 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


“YeS:. 

“ Would you object if they stayed on with us, 
he and Elly?’* 

“ No, on the contrary.” 

But it seemed as though Steyn’s calm consent just 
irritated his wife, perhaps against her own will, into 
contradiction: 

“ Yes, but it wouldn’t be so easy! ” she said. 

“ Why not? ” 

“ The house is too small.” 

“ We can move.” 

“ A bigger house would be more expensive. Have 
you the money for it? ” 

“ I think that, with what Lot makes and with 
Elly’s allowance . . .” 

“ No, a bigger house is too dear.” 

“Well, then here. . , 

“ This is too small.” 

“ Then it can’t be done.” 

Ottilie rose, angrily: 

“No, of course not: nothing can ever be done. 
Because of that wretched money. But I’ll tell you 
this: when Lot is married, I can’t ... I 
c-can’t . . .” 

She stammered when she was angry. 

“ Well, what can’t you? ” 

“I c-can’t . . . stay alone with you! I shall 
go to Nice, to Ottilie.” 

“ All right, go.” 

He said it calmly, with great indifference, and 


THINGS THAT PASS 19 

took up his paper again. But it was enough to make 
Ottilie, who was highly strung, burst into sobs: 

“ You don’t care a bit about me any more! ” 

Steyn shrugged his shoulders and went out of the 
room and upstairs; the dog sprang in front of him, 
barking. 

Ottilie remained alone; and her sobs ceased at 
once. She knew it herself—the years had taught 
her as much as that—she easily lost her temper 
and would always remain a child. But, in that case, 
why grow older, in ever-increasing loneliness? There 
she sat, there she sat now, an old, grey woman, in 
that unhomely room; and everything was past. Oh, 
if Lot only remained with her, her Lot, her Chariot, 
her boy! And she felt her jealousy of Lot and 
Elly, at first restrained, rising more and more 
violently. And that other jealousy: her jealousy of 
Steyn. He irritated her when he merely entered 
the room; but she still remained jealous of him, 
as she always had been of every man that loved 
her. Oh, to think that he no longer cared about 
her, because she had grown old! Oh, to think that 
he never uttered a word of affection now, never gave 
her a kiss on her forehead! She was jealous of Elly 
because of Lot, she was jealous of Lot because of 
Steyn, because Steyn really cared more for Lot, 
nowadays, than for her! How cruel the years were, 
slowly to take everything from her! The years 
were past, the dear, laughing love-years, full of 
caresses; all that was pastl Even the dog had just 


20 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

gone off with Steyn: no living creature was nice to 
her; and why need Lot suddenly go getting married 
now? She felt so forlorn that, after the forced 
sobs, which she had stopped as soon as they were 
no longer necessary, she sank into a chair and wept 
softly, really weeping, this time, because no one 
loved her and because she was forlorn. Her still 
young and beautiful eyes, overflowing with tears, 
looked into the vanished past. Then—in the days 
when she was the beautiful Lietje—everything about 
her had been pleasant, nice, caressing, playful, 
jesting, almost adoring and entreating, because she 
was so pretty and gay and attractive and had an 
irresistible laugh and a temper full of the most 
delightful little whims. True, through all this there 
was always the sting of jealousy; but in those days 
so much of it had come her way: all the caressing 
homage which the world, the world of men, expends 
on a pretty woman! She laughed at it through her 
tears; and the memory meandered around her, 
bright as pretty little, distant clouds. Oh, what a 
wealth of adulation had surrounded her then! Now, 
all those men were old or dead; only her own three 
husbands were alive; and Steyn was still young. He 
was too young: if he had not been so young, she 
would have kept her charm for him longer and they 
would still be nice to each other, happy together as 
old people can be sometimes, even though the 
warmth of youth is past. . . . She heaved a deep 
sigh through her tears and sat in her chair like a 


21 


THINGS THAT PASS 

helpless child that has been naughty and now does 
not know what to do. What was there for her to 
do now? Just to go quietly to bed, in her lonely 
room, an old woman’s room, in her lonely bed, and 
to wake in the morning and drag one more old day 
after the old, old days! Ah, why could she not have 
died while she was young? 

She rang and told the maid to lock up; and these 
little habits had for her the disconsolateness of 
everyday repetition, because it all seemed unneces¬ 
sary. Then she went upstairs. The little house was 
very tiny: a small suite of rooms on the ground- 
floor, above that a suite with a little dressing-room 
in addition to her room and Lot’s, while Steyn had 
hoisted himself up to the attic floor, doubtless so 
as not to be too near his wife. And, as she un¬ 
dressed, she reflected that, if Elly would consent 
to make shift, it might just be possible; she would 
give up her present big room, with the three 
windows, to Lot and Elly; she, oh, she could sleep 
in what was now Lot’s little room: what did she 
care? If only children did not come too quickly! 
Oh, if only she did not lose Lot altogether! He 
asked her why he had proposed to Elly! He asked 
it in his usual half-jesting way; but it was not nice 
of him to ask it: she was glad that she had answered 
quietly and not worked herself into a temper. Oh, 
the pain, the physical pain which she sometimes 
suffered from that thorn in her heart’s flesh, because 
of love, affection, caresses even, that went out to 


22 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

another! And sadly, pitying herself, she got into 
bed. The room was empty around her and un- 
homely: the bedroom of a woman who does not 
care for all the trifles of comfort and the vanities 
of the toilet and whose great joy always was to 
long for the love and caresses of those whom she 
found attractive, because of the once—often secret 
—wave of passion that flowed between them and 
her. For this she had neglected the whole of the 
other life of a wife, of a mother, even of a woman 
of the world and even of a smart woman, not caring 
for it, despising auxiliaries, feeling sure of her 
fascinations and very little of a mother by nature. 
Oh, she was old now and alone! And she lay lonely 
in her chilly bed; and that evening she had not even 
the consolation that Lot would come from the room 
next to hers to give her a good-night kiss in bed as he 
knew how, pettingly, a long, fond kiss on her fore¬ 
head. At such times he would sit for a moment 
on the edge of her bed, have a last chat with her; 
and then, sometimes, passing his delicate hand over 
her cheek, he would say: 

“ Mamma, what a soft skin you have! ” 

When he came home now, he would think that 
she was asleep and would go to bed. She sighed: 
she felt so lonely. Above Lot’s room—^you could 
hear everything in that house—she heard Steyn 
pounding about. The maid also was going to bed 
now; out of her own bed Ottilie listened to all those 
sounds: doors opening; shoes put outside; a basin 


THINGS THAT PASS 23 

emptied. It now became very still and she reflected 
what a good thing it was that she always chose old 
servants. She thought of it with a certain mis¬ 
chievous joy, glad that Steyn had no chance, with 
elderly servants. The house was now quiet for the 
night, though it was not yet eleven. . . . 

Had she been asleep? Why did she wake sud¬ 
denly? What was that creaking on the stairs? Was 
it Lot coming home ? Or was it Steyn sneaking out 
again? Was it Lot? Was it Steyn? Her heart 
thumped in her chest. And she got out of bed 
quickly and, before she knew what she was doing, 
opened the door and saw a match struck flickering 
in the hall. . . . 

“ Is that you. Lot? ” 

“ No, it’s I.” 

“You, Frans?” 

“Yes, what’s the matter?” 

His voice sounded irritated, because she had 
heard him. 

“ What are you doing? ” 

“ I’m going out.” 

“ At this time of night? ” 

“ Yes. I can’t sleep. I’m going for a walk.” 

“ You’re going for a walk at this hour? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Frans, you’re not faithful to me! ” 

“Oh, rot! Not faithful to you! Go back to 
bed.” 

“ Frans, I won^t have you go out.” 


24 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


“Look here!” 

“ Do stay at home, Frans! Lot Isn’t back yet 
and I’m frightened, alone. Do, Frans! ” 

Her voice sounded like that of a pleading child. 

“ I want some air.” 

“ You want . . .” 

She did not finish her sentence, suddenly choking 
with anger. On the top floor—she knew it—the 
old servant-maid was standing with her door ajar, 
laughing and grinning. She knew it. She felt 
stifled with rage, with nervous rage; she quivered 
all over her body, shivering in her night-dress. The 
hall-door had opened and shut. Steyn was outside; 
and she . . . she was still standing on the stairs 
above. She clenched her fists, she panted; she could 
have run after him, in her night-dress; the big tears 
sprang from her child-eyes; but, ashamed because 
of the maid, she went back to her room. 

She cried, cried very softly, so as not to let the 
maid hear, so that the maid should not have that 
added enjoyment. Oh, that pain, that sting, here, 
in her heart, a physical pain, a physical pain! No 
one who did not feel it as she did could know the 
physical pain which it gave her, the sort of pain 
one describes to a doctor. Where could Steyn be 
going? He was still so young, he still looked so 
well-set-up. And yet he was her husband, her 
husband! Oh, why had he not remained nice to 
her, old though she was? She never even felt the 
touch of his hand now! And how at one time she 


THINGS THAT PASS 


25 

had felt that touch tingle through all her being! 
Oh, never again, never even a kiss, a kind kiss, such 
as old people still exchange at times I 

She did not go to bed; she waited up. Would 
Steyn come back soon? Was that . . . was that 
he coming now? No, it was Lot: it was his key 
she heard, his lighter footstep. 

And she opened the door: 

“Lot! ” 

“ Mummy, aren’t you in bed yet? ” 

“No, dear. Lot, Lot, come here!’’ 

He went into her room. 

“ Lot, Steyn is out.” 

“Out?” 

“ Yes, he went to his room first . . r. and then 
I heard him go quietly down the stairs; then he 
went out of the hall-door, quietly.” 

“ He didn’t want to wake you, Mummy.” 

“Ah, but where has he gone to? ” 

“ For a walk. He often does. It’s very hot and 
close.” 

“ Gone for a walk. Lot, gone for a walk? No, 
he’s gone ...” 

She stood in front of him—he could see it by the 
candle-light—blazing with passion. Her little figure 
in the white night-dress was like that of a fury with 
the curly yellow hair, shot with grey, all shining; 
everything that was sweet in her seethed up into a 
raging temper, as though she were irritated to the 
utmost, and she felt an impulse suddenly to raise her 


26 


THINGS THAT PASS 

hand and box Lot’s ears with its small, quivering 
lingers for daring to defend Steyn. She controlled 
herself and controlled her wrath, but words of vul¬ 
gar invective and burning reproach came foaming 
to her trembling lips. 

“Come, Mummy, Mummy! Come!” 

Lot tried to calm her. And he took her in his 
arms and patted her back, as one does to an excited 
child: 

“ Come, Mummy, come! ” 

She now burst into sobs. But he remonstrated 
with her gently, said that she was exaggerating, that 
she had been overwrought lately, that he absolutely 
refused to get married if she did not become calmer; 
and very prettily he flirted with her in this way and 
persuaded her to go to bed, tucked her in, shook up 
her pillows: 

“ Come, Mummy, go to sleep now and don’t be 
silly. Let Steyn go for his walk in peace, don’t think 
of Steyn, don’t think of anything. ...” 

She acquiesced, under the stroke of his delicate 
hand on her hair, her cheek. 

“Will you go to sleep now, you silly Mummy? 
... I say, Mummy, what a soft skin you 
have! ...” 


CHAPTER II 


Elly Takma was very happy and looked better 
than she had done for a long time. Well, thought 
Cousin Adde, who had long kept house for Grand¬ 
papa Takma—she was a Takma too and unmarried 
—well, a first little love-romance which a girl 
experiences when not much over twenty and which 
makes her feel unhappy, an engagement broken off 
with a fellow who used to go and see his mistress 
after spending the evening with his betrothed: a 
romance of that sort does not influence a girl’s life; 
and, though Elly had moped for a while. Lot Pauws 
was making her happy and making her look better, 
with a glad laugh on her lips and a bright colour 
in her cheeks. 

Cousin AdMe—Aunt Adele, as Elly called her, 
Indian-fashion — buxom, full-figured, fresh and 
young-looking for her age, had nothing of a poor 
relation employed to do the housekeeping, but was 
altogether the capable mistress of the house, seeing 
to everything, caring for nothing but the details of 
her household and proud of her orderly home. 
She had never been in India and ruled Grand¬ 
papa’s house with true Dutch conscientiousness, 
leaving Elly entirely to her hobby of the moment; 

27 


28 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


for Elly had her hobbies, which she rode until she 
attained absolute perfection, after which she would 
take up a fresh one. At eighteen, she had been a 
famous tennis-player, winning medals in tourna¬ 
ments, well-known for her exquisite, powerful and 
graceful play, mentioned in all the sporting-papers. 
After achieving perfection in tennis, she had sud¬ 
denly grown bored with it, hung up her racket, 
studded round with the medals, by a pink ribbon 
in her bedroom and begun to work zealously for 
the Charity Organization Society, doing much prac¬ 
tical slumming and sick-visiting; they thought highly 
of her in the committee. One day, however, when 
a sick man showed her his leg with a hole in it, she 
fainted and considered that she had overstepped her 
philanthropic limits. She resigned the work; and, 
feeling a certain handiness quivering at the tips of 
her sensitive fingers, she started making her own 
hats and also modelling. She was successful in both 
pursuits: the hats were so pretty that she thought 
seriously of setting up as a milliner and working 
for her living. The modelling too was most charm¬ 
ing: after the first few lessons, she was modelling 
from the life; and her head of A Beggar Boy was 
accepted for exhibition. Then Elly had fallen in 
love and was very much in love; her engagement 
lasted three months; then it was broken off; and 
Elly, who did nothing by halves, for all her varying 
interests, had suffered a great deal and faded and 
pined and been dangerously ill, until one day she 


THINGS THAT PASS 29 

recovered, with a feeling of melancholy as her only 
remembrance. 

She was then twenty-three and had taken to 
writing. Under a pseudonym, she published her 
own engagement in the form of a short story: it 
was not a bad short story. Her new hobby brought 
her gradually into contact with Charles Pauws, who 
also wrote, mostly for the newspapers: articles, 
causeries, Elly was of opinion that she had soon 
reached her literary limits. After this short story, 
which had blossomed in her and blossomed out of 
her heart, she would never write anything more. 
She was twenty-three, she was old. She had lived 
her life, with different vicissitudes. Still there was 
something, there was Charles. Soft, weak, passably 
witty, with his mother’s attractive eyes, with his 
fair hair carefully brushed, with his too pale blue 
ties, he was not the man of her dreams; and she 
still felt, sometimes very grievously, the sadness 
of her sorrow. But she was fond of him, she 
was very fond of him and she considered that he 
was wasting his talent on trivial work, on journal¬ 
ism, which he did with remarkable ease—after all, 
it was an art in itself, Charles would retort— 
whereas his two novels were so good; and he had 
attempted no serious work for the last ten years. 
And in this girl, with her thoroughness—within 
limits—there arose, on the now somewhat romantic 
ground of her melancholy and her sorrow, the mis¬ 
sion to rouse Lot to work, to produce real work, 


30 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

fine work. She must work no longer for herself but 
for another, for Lot, who possessed so many good 
qualities, but did not cultivate them earnestly. She 
saw more and more of him; she had him to tea; they 
talked,talked at great length; Lot, though not physi¬ 
cally in love with her, thought it really pleasant to be 
with Elly, allowed himself to be stimulated, began 
a novel, stuck in the middle. She created in his 
mind the suggestion that he wanted her. And he 
proposed to her. She was very happy and he too, 
though they were not passionately in love. They 
were attracted by the prospect of being together, 
talking together, living, working, travelling together, 
in the smiling sympathy of their two souls: his a 
rather small, vain, cynical, artistic soul, with above 
all much kindly indulgence for others and a tinge 
of laughing bitterness and one great dread, which 
utterly swayed his soul, the dread of growing old; 
hers, at this moment, full of the serious thought 
of remaining true to her mission and giving her life 
a noble object by wrapping it up in another’s. 

Elly, that morning, was singing while the wind 
sent the early autumn leaves driving in a shower of 
golden sunlight along the window-panes. She was 
busy altering a winter hat, with a talent which she 
had not quite lost, when Cousin—Aunt—^Adele 
entered the room: 

“ Grandpapa has had a bad night; I kept on 
hearing him moving.” 

“ Yes, then he’s troubled with buzzings which are 


THINGS THAT PASS 31 

just like voices,” said Elly. “ Grandpapa is always 
hearing those voices, you know. Dr. Thielens looks 
upon them as a premonitory symptom of total deaf¬ 
ness. Poor Grandad! I’ll go to him at once . . . 
I must just finish my hat first: I want to wear it to¬ 
day. We are going to old Mrs. Dercksz and to Aunt 
Stefanie. . . . Auntie, I am so happy. Lot is so 
nice. And he is so clever. I am certain that we 
shall be very happy. I want to travel a great deal. 
Lot loves travelling. . . . There is some talk of 
our living with Steyn and Ottilie. I don’t know what 
to say. I would rather we were by ourselves. Still, 
I don’t know. I’m very fond of Mamma; and she’s 
Lot’s mother after all. But I like harmony around 
me; and Steyn and she quarrel. I call him Steyn, 
simply. Meneer is too stiff; and I can’t call him 
Papa. Besides, Lot calls him Steyn too. It’s diffi¬ 
cult, that sort of household. Steyn himself would 
think it odd if I called him Papa. . . . Do you 
like the hat like this? I’ll alter yours to-morrow. 
Look, it’s an absolutely new hat! . . . I’ll go to 
Grandpapa now. Poor Grandad, so he’s had a 
bad night? . . .” 

She left the door open. Aunt Adele looked round: 
the room was lumbered with hat-trimmings. The 
Beggar Boy smiled in a corner; the medals were 
studded round the racket, on its pink ribbon; the 
writing-table was tesselated with squares of note- 
paper. 

“ What a litter 1 ” said Aunt Adele. 


32 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


She dared not touch the papers, though she would 
have liked to tidy them: she could not bear to see 
such a heap of scattered papers and she had to 
restrain her itching fingers. But she cleared up the 
hat-trimmings, quickly, and put them away in card¬ 
board boxes. Then she went downstairs, where the 
maids were turning out the dining-room. Elly, 
flitting up the stairs, heard the blows beating on an 
arm-chair, felt them almost on her own back, ran 
still quicker up the stairs, to the next floor, where 
Grandpapa’s room was. She stopped outside his 
door, recovered her breath, knocked, opened the 
door and went in with a calm step: 

“ How are you this morning. Grandad? ” 

The old gentleman sat at a knee-hole table, look¬ 
ing in a drawer; he locked it quietly when Elly 
entered. She went up and kissed him: 

“ I hear you did not sleep well? ” 

“ No, child, I don’t think I slept at all. But 
Grandad can do without sleep.” 

Grandpapa Takma was ninety-three: married late 
in life and his son married late made it possible 
for him to have a granddaughter of Elly’s age. He 
looked younger, however, much younger, perhaps 
because he tactfully mingled a seeming indifference to 
his outward appearance with a really studied care. A 
thin garland of grey hair still fringed the ivory skull; 
the clean-shaven face was like a stained parchment, 
but the mouth, because of the artificial teeth, had 
retained its young and laughing outline and the eyes 


THINGS THAT PASS 


33 

were a clear brown, bright and even keen behind his 
spectacles. His figure was small, slender and slight 
as a young man’s; and a very short jacket hung over 
his slightly-arched and emaciated back: it was open 
in front and hung in folds behind. The hands, too 
large in proportion to the man’s short stature, but 
delicately veined and neatly kept, trembled inces¬ 
santly; and there was a jerk in the muscles of the 
neck that twitched the head at intervals. His tone 
was cheerful and lively, a little too genial not to 
be forced; and the words came slowly and well- 
weighed, however simple the things which they 
expressed. When he sat, he sat upright, on an ordi¬ 
nary chair, never huddled together, as though he 
were always on his guard; when he walked, he walked 
briskly, with very short steps of his stiff legs, so as 
not to betray their rheumatism. He had been an 
Indian civil servant, ending as a member of the 
Indian Council, and had been pensioned years ago; 
his conversation showed that he kept pace with 
politics, kept pace with colonial matters: he laughed 
at them, with mild irony. In his intercourse with 
others, who were always his juniors—for he had 
no contemporaries save old Mrs. Dercksz, nee 
Dillenhof, who was ninety-seven, and Dr. Roelofsz, 
eighty-eight—in his intercourse he was kindly and 
condescending, realizing that the world must seem 
other to people even of sixty and seventy than it 
did to him; but the geniality was too great, was 
sometimes too exuberant not to be assumed and not 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


34 

to make people feel that he never thought as he 
spoke. He gave the impression of being a diplomat¬ 
ist who, himself always on his guard, was sounding 
another to find out what he knew. Sometimes, in 
his bright eyes, a spark shone behind the spectacles, 
as though he had suddenly been struck by some¬ 
thing, a very acute perception; and the jerk of the 
neck would throw his head on one side, as though 
he suddenly heard something. His mouth would 
then distort itself into a laugh and he would hur¬ 
riedly agree with whomever he was addressing. 

What was most striking in him was that quick, 
tremulous lucidity in so very old a man. It was as 
though some strange capacity had sharpened his 
senses so that they remained sound and serviceable, 
for he still read a great deal, with glasses; he was 
sharp of hearing; he was particular in the matter 
of wine, with an unimpaired sense of smell; he could 
find things in the dark. Only, sometimes, in the 
midst of a conversation, it was as though an invin¬ 
cible drowsiness overcame him; and his eyes would 
suddenly stare glassily in front of him and he would 
fall asleep. They left him alone and had the civility 
not to let him know it; and, five minutes later, he 
would wake up, go on talking, oblivious of that 
momentary unconsciousness. The inward shock with 
which he had woke was visible to no one. 

Elly went to see her grandfather in the morning, 
always for a minute. 

“ We are going to pay calls this afternoon,” said 


THINGS THAT PASS 35 

Elly. “ On the family. We have been nowhere 
yet.” 

“ Not even to Grandmamma.” 

“ We shall go to her first this afternoon. Grandad, 
weVe been engaged three days. And you can’t go 
troubling everybody with your happiness immedi¬ 
ately.” 

“And you are happy, child,” Grandpapa began, 
genially. 

“I think so. ...” 

“I’m sorry I can’t keep you with me, you and 
Lot,” he continued, lightly: he sometimes had an 
airy way of treating serious topics; and his thin 
voice then lacked emphasis. “ But you see. I’m too 
old for that: a young household grafted on mine! 
Besides, to live by yourselves is more charming. 
... Baby, we never talk of money, you and 
I. As you know. Papa left nothing and he ran 
through your mother’s money, lost it in different 
businesses in Java; they none of them succeeded. 
Your poor parents never had any luck. Well, Baby, 
I’m not a rich man, but I can live like this, on my 
Mauritskade, because an old man doesn’t want 
much and Aunt Adde manages things so cleverly. 
I’ve worked out that I can give you two hun¬ 
dred guilders a month. But that’s all, child, that’s 
all.” 

“ But, Grandad, it’s really very handsome. ...” 

“ Well, you can accept it from your grandfather. 
You’re my heiress, after all, though you’re not all 


36 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

alone; no, Grandfather has others: kind acquaint¬ 
ances, good friends. ... It won’t last very long 
now, child. You won’t be rich, for my house is my 
only luxury. All the rest, as you know, is on an 
economical scale. But you will have enough, 
especially later on; and Lot appears to make a 
good bit. Oh, It’s not money that matters to him, 
child: what matters to him is . . . is . . .” 

“What, Grandad?” 

A drowsiness suddenly overcame the old man. 
But, in a few minutes, he resumed: 

“ There is some talk of your living with 
Steyn. ...” 

“ Yes, but nothing’s decided.” 

“ Ottilie is nice, but hot-tempered,” said the old 
gentleman, sunk in thought: he seemed to be think¬ 
ing of other things, of more important things 
especially. 

“ If I do. It will be for Mamma’s sake. Grandad, 
because she is so much attached to Lot. I would 
rather have my own little house. But we shall travel 
a good deal in any case. Lot says that he can travel 
cheaply.” 

“ You might be able to do it, child, with a little 
tact: live with the Steyns, I mean. Ottilie Is certainly 
very much alone, poor thing. Who knows? Perhaps 
you would supply a little affection, a little 
sympathy. . . .” 

His airy voice became softer, fuller, sounded more 
earnest. 


THINGS THAT PASS 37 

“ We shall see, Grandpapa. Will you stay up¬ 
stairs, or are you coming down to lunch?’* 

“ No, send me something up here. I’ve not much 
appetite. I’ve no appetite. ...” 

His voice sounded airy again, like the whisper of 
a breeze. 

“It’s windy weather; and I think it’s going to 
rain. Are you going out all the same, this after¬ 
noon? ” 

“ For a moment, I think. . .. To Mrs. 

Dercksz’ ...” 

“To Grandmamma’s. . . .” 

“ Yes, yes, better say Grandmamma. When you 
see her, call her Grandmamma at once. It’s less 
stiff: she will like it . . . even though you’re not 
married to Lot yet. ...” 

His voice sank; he sighed, as though he were think¬ 
ing of other things, of more important things; and, 
with the jerk in his neck, he started up and remained 
like that for a second, with his head on one side, 
as if he heard something, as if he were listening. 
Elly did not think Grandpapa looking well to-day. 
The drowsiness overcame him again; his head 
dropped and his eyes grew glassy. And he sat 
there, so frail and fragile, as if one could have blown 
the life out of him like a dancing feather. Elly, 
after a moment’s hesitation, left him alone. The 
old gentleman gave a start, when he heard the door 
close gently, and recovered his full consciousness. 
He sat for a second or two without moving. Then 


38 THINGS THAT PASS 

he unlocked the drawer of his writing-table, with 
which he had been busy before, and took out the 
pieces of a letter that had already been torn up. 
He tore the pieces still smaller, as small as they 
possibly could be, and scattered them in his waste- 
paper-basket, in among other discarded papers. 
After that he tore up a second letter, after that a 
third, without reading them over. He scattered the 
tiny pieces in the basket and shook the basket, shook 
the basket. The tearing tired his stiff fingers; the 
shaking tired his arm. 

“ A few more this afternoon,” he muttered. “ It’s 
getting time, it’s getting time. ...” 


CHAPTER III 


The old gentleman went out at about three o’clock, 
alone: he did not like to be accompanied when he 
went, though he was glad to be brought back home; 
but he would never ask for this service. Aunt 
Adele looked out of the window and followed him 
with her eyes as he turned by the barracks and 
crossed the razor-back bridge. He was not going 
farther than just down the Nassaulaan, to Mrs. 
Dercksz’; and he managed the distance with a 
delicate, erect figure and straight legs: he did not 
even look so very old a man, in his overcoat but¬ 
toned up to the throat, even though each step was 
carefully considered and supported by his heavy, 
ivory-knobbed stick. In order above all not to let 
it be perceived that this short walk was his exer¬ 
cise and his relaxation, a great deal of exercise and 
relaxation for his now merely nervous strength, he 
had needs to consider every step; but he succeeded 
in walking as though without difficulty, stiff and 
upright, and he studied his reflection in the plate- 
glass of the ground-floor windows. In the street, 
he did not strike a passer-by as so very old. When 
he rang, old Anna hurried and the cat slipped cross¬ 
wise through her petticoats, cat and maid making for 
the front-door at one run: 


39 


40 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


“ The old gentleman, I expect.” 

Then she drove the cat back to the kitchen, afraid 
lest the old gentleman should stumble, and drew 
him in with little remarks about the weather and 
questions about his health; and to Takma it called 
for rare art to let his overcoat, which he took off 
in the hall, slip from his shoulders and arms into 
the maid’s hands. He did it slowly and gradually, 
a little tired with the walk, but in the meanwhile he 
recovered breath sufficiently to go upstairs, one 
flight only, with the aid of the stick—“ We may as 
well keep the stick, Anna,” he would say—for Mrs. 
Dercksz nowadays never came down to the ground- 
floor rooms. 

She was expecting him. 

He came almost every day; and, when he was 
not coming. Aunt Adele or Elly would call round 
to say so. So she sat, in her high-backed chair, 
waiting for him. She sat at the window, looking 
out at the gardens of the villas in the Sofialaan. 

He murmured heartily, though his salutation was 
indistinct: 

“Well, Ottilie? . . . It’s blowing out of 
doors, r. . . Yes, you’ve been coughing a bit 
lately. . . . You must take care of yourself, 
you know. . . . I’m all right. I’m all right, 

as you see. ...” 

With a few more words of genial heartiness, he 
sat down straight upright in the arm-chair at the 
other window, while Anna now for the first time 


THINGS THAT PASS 


41 


relieved him of his hat, and rested his hands, still 
clad in the wide, creased gloves of glace kid, on his 
stick. 

“ I haven’t seen you since the great news,” said 
Mrs. Dercksz. 

“ The children are coming presently to pay their 
visit of inspection. ...” 

They were both silent, their eyes looking into^ 
each other’s eyes, chary of words. And quietly for 
a while they sat opposite each other, each at a 
window of the narrow drawing-room. The old, old 
woman sat in a twilight of crimson-rep curtains and 
cream-coloured lace-and-canvas blinds, in addition to 
a crimson-plush valance, which kept out the draught 
and hung with a bend along the window-frame. She 
had only moved just to raise her thin hand, in its 
black mitten, for Takma to press. Now they both 
sat as though waiting for something and yet pleased 
to be waiting together. . . . The old lady was 
ninety-seven and she knew that what she was waiting 
for must come before her hundredth year had 
dawned. ... In the twilight of that curtained 
corner, against the sombre wall-paper, her face 
seemed almost like a piece of white porcelain, with 
wrinkles for the crackle, in that shadow into which 
she still withdrew, continuing a former prudent 
habit of not showing too much of her impaired 
complexion; and her wig was glossy-black, sur¬ 
mounted with the little black-lace cap; the loose 
black dress fell in easy, thin lines around her almost 


42 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

brittle, lean figure, but hid her so entirely in those 
never-varying folds of supple cashmere that she could 
never be really seen or known, but only suggested 
in that dark drapery. Besides the face, nothing 
else seemed alive but the frail fingers trembling in 
her lap, like so many tapering, luminous wands 
in their black mittens; the wrists were encircled in 
close-fitting woollen cuffs. She sat upright on her 
high-backed chair, as on a throne, supported by a 
stiff, hard cushion; another cushion was under her 
feet, which she never showed, as they were slightly 
deformed by gout. Beside her, on a little table, 
was some crochet-work, untouched for years, and the 
newspapers, which were read to her by a com¬ 
panion, an elderly lady who withdrew as soon as 
Mr. Takma arrived. The room was neat and 
simple, with a few framed photographs here and 
there as the only ornament amid the highly- 
polished, black, shiny furniture, the crimson sofa 
and chairs, with a few pieces of china gleaming 
in a glass cabinet. The closed folding-doors led 
to the bedroom: these were the only two rooms 
inhabited by the old woman, who took her light 
meal in her chair. 

Golden-sunny was the late summer day; and the 
wind blew gaily, in a whirl of early yellow leaves, 
through the garden of the Sofialaan. 

“ A nice view, that,” said Mrs. Dercksz, as she 
had said so often before, with her mittened hand 
just hinting at an angular pointing gesture. 


THINGS THAT PASS 


4 J 

The voice, long cracked, sounded softer than 
pure Dutch and was mellower, with its creole accent; 
and, now that she looked out of the window, the 
eyes also took on an eastern softness in the porce¬ 
lain features and became darker. She did not 
clearly distinguish things outside; but yet the 
knowledge that there were flowers and trees over 
the way was dear to her dim eyes. 

“ Fine asters in the garden opposite,” said Takma. 

“ Yes,” Mrs. Dercksz assented, unable to see 
them, but now knowing about the asters. 

She understood him quite well; her general deaf¬ 
ness she concealed by never asking what was said 
and by replying with a smile of her thin, closed lips 
or a movement of her head. 

After a pause, as each sat looking out of his own 
window, she said: 

“ I saw Ottilie yesterday.” 

The old gentleman felt bewildered for a moment: 

“ Ottilie?” he asked. 

“ Lietje . . . my daughter. ...” 

“Oh, yes! . . . You saw Lietje yesterday, 
r. . . I thought you were speaking of your¬ 
self. ...” 

“ She was crying.” 

“ Why?” 

“ Because Lot is going to be married.” 

“ She’ll be very lonely, poor Lietje; yet Steyn is 
a decent fellow. . . . It’s a pity. ... I like 


44 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


“We are all of us lonely,” said Mrs. Dercksz; 
and the cracked voice sounded sad, as though she 
were regretting a past full of vanished shades. 

“ Not all of us, Ottille,” said Takma. “ You and 
I have each other. We have always had each other. 
1.1 . Our child, when Lot Is married, will have 

no one, not even her own husband.” 

“SshI” said the old woman; and the straight, 
lean figure gave a shiver of terror In the twilight. 

“ There’s no one here; we can speak at our ease.” 

“No, there’s no one. . . .” 

“ Did you think there was some one?” 

“No, not now. . . . Sometimes . . .” 

“Yes?” 

“ Sometimes . . . you know . . . I think 
there is.” 

“ There’s no one.” 

“ No, there’s no one.” 

“Why are you afraid?” 

“Afraid? Am I afraid? What should I be 
afraid of? I am too old . . . much too old 

. . to be afraid now. . . . Even though he 
may stand over there.” 

“ Ottilie!” 

“Ssh!” 

“ There’s no one.” 

“ No.” 

“Have you . . . have you seen him lately?” 

“ No. . . . No. . . . Not for months, per¬ 
haps not . . . for years, for years. . . . But 


THINGS THAT PASS 


45 

I did see him for many, many years. ..j >■ > You 
never saw him? ” 

“ No.” 

“But . . . you used tohim? 

“ Yes, / . . . I used to hear him . . . My 
hearing was very good and always keen. ... It 
was hallucinations. ... I often heard his voice. 
. . . Don’t let us talk about it . . . We are 

both so old, so old, Ottilie. . . . He must have 

forgiven us by now. Else we should never have 
grown so old. Our life has passed peacefully for 
years: long, long, old years; nothing has ever dis¬ 
turbed us: he must have forgiven us. . . . Now 

we are both standing on the brink of our graves.” 

“ Yes, it will soon come. I feel it.” 

But Takma brought his geniality into play: 

“You, Ottilie? You’ll live to be a hundred!” 

His voice made an effort at bluff braggadocio and 
then broke into a shrill high note. 

“ I shall never see a hundred,” said the old 
woman. “ No. I shall die this winter.” 

“ This winter? ” 

“Yes. I foresee it. I am waiting. But I am 
frightened.” 

“Of death?” 

“ Not of death. But . . . oihim!” 

“ Do you believe ,. . that you will see him 

again? ” 

“ Yes. I believe in God, in the communion of 
souls. In a life hereafter. In atonement.” 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


46 

“ I don’t believe in an atonement hereafter, be¬ 
cause we have both of us suffered so much in our 
lives, Ottilie! ” 

The old man’s tone was almost one of entreaty. 

“ But there has been no punishment,” said she. 

“ Our suffering was a punishment.” 

“ Not enough. I believe that, when I am dead, 
he, he will accuse me.” 

“ Ottilie, we have become so old, quietly, quietly. 
We have only had to suffer inwardly. But that has 
been enough, God will consider that punishment 
enough. Don’t be afraid of death.” 

“ I should not be afraid if I had seen his face 
wearing a gentler expression, with something of for¬ 
giveness. He always stared at me. . . . Oh, 

those eyes I . . .” 

“Hush, Ottilie! . . 

“ When I sat here, he would stand there, in the 
corner by the cabinet, and look at me. When I 
was in bed, he appeared in my mirror and gazed 
at me. For years and years. . . . Perhaps it 

was an hallucination. . . . But I grew old like 

that. I have no tears left. I no longer wring my 
hands. I never move except between this chair and 
my bed. I have had no uneasiness . . . or terror 
. . . for years: nobody knows. Of the 
hahoe^ ...” 

“ Ma-Boeten? ” 

“ Yes ... I have had no news for years. She 

* Malay: nurse, ayah. 


THINGS THAT PASS 47 

was the only one who knew. She’s dead, I 
expect.” 

“ Roelofsz knows,” said the old gentleman, very 
softly. 

‘‘Yes . . . he knows . . . but ...” 

“ Oh, he has always kept silent! ...” 

“ He is . . . almost . . . an accomp¬ 
lice. . . .” 

“ Ottilie, you must think about it calmly. . . . 

We have grown so very old . . .You must think 
about it calmly, as / think about it. . . You have 

always been too fanciful . . .” 

His voice sounded in entreaty, very different from 
its usual airy geniality. 

“ It was after that in particular that I became full 
of fancies. No, I have never been able to think 
about it calmly! At first I was afraid of people, 
then of myself: I thought I should go mad! . . . 
Now, now that it is approaching . . . I am afraid 
of God!” 

“Ottilie!” 

“ It has been a long, long, long martyrdom. . . . 
O God, can it be that this life is not enough? ” 

“ Ottilie, we should not have grown so very 
old—^you . . . and I . .. . and Roelofsz—if 

God . . . and he also had not forgiven us.” 

“ Then why did he so often . . . come and 

stand there! Oh, he stood there so often! He just 
stared, pale, with dark, sunken eyes, eyes like two 
fiery daggers: like 


48 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

And she pointed the two slender, wand-like fore¬ 
fingers straight in front of her. 

“ I . . .1 am calm, Ottilie. And, if we are 

punished afterwards, after our death, we must en¬ 
dure it And, if we endure it ... we shall 
receive mercy.” 

“ I wish I were a Catholic. I thought for a long 
time of becoming a Catholic. Therese was quite 
right to become a Catholic. . . . Oh, why do I 

never see her now? Shall I ever see her again? I 
hope so. I hope so. . . . If I had been a 

Catholic, I should have confessed . . .” 

“ There is no absolution among Catholics for 
that” 

“Isn’t there? I thought . . . I thought that 
a priest could forgive anything . . . and cleanse 

the soul before you died. The priest at any rate 
could have consoled me, could have given me hope! 
Our religion is so cold. I have never been able to 
speak of it to a clergyman. ...” 

“ No, no, of course not! ” 

“ I could have spoken of it to a priest. He would 
have made me do penance all my life long; and it 
would have relieved me. Now, that is always here, 
on my breast. And I am so old. I sit with it. I 
lie in bed with it. I cannot even walk about with it, 
roam about with it, forget myself in move¬ 
ment. . . . ” 

“ Ottilie, why are you talking about it so much 
to-day? Sometimes we do not mention it for 


THINGS THAT PASS 


49 

months, for years at a time. Then the months and 
years pass quietly. . . Why are you suddenly 

talking so very much about it to-day? ” 

“ I began thinking, because Lot and Elly are get¬ 
ting married.” 

“ They will be happy.” 

“ But isn’t it a crime, a crime against nature?” 
“ No, Ottilie, do reflect . . .” 

“ They are . . .” 

“ They are cousins. They don’t know it, but that 
isn’t a crime against nature! ” 

“ True.” 

“ They are cousins.” 

“ Yes, they’re cousins.” 

“ Ottilie is my daughter; her son is my grandson. 
Elly’s father . . .” 

“ Well?” 

“ Do reflect, Otillie: Elly’s father, my son, 
was Lietje’s brother. Their children are first 
cousins.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ That’s all they are.” 

“ But they don’t know that they are cousins. 
Lietje has never been told that she is your daughter. 
She has never been told that she was your son’s 
sister.” 

“What difference does that make? Cousins are 
free to marry.” 

“ Yes, but it’s not advisable. . . > It’s not 

advisable because of the children that may come. 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


50 

because of the blood and because . >j . because of 
everything.” 

“Of what, Ottllie?” 

“ They inherit our past. They inherit that terror. 
They inherit our sin. They inherit the punishment 
for our offence.” 

“ You exaggerate, Ottilie. No, they don’t inherit 
as much as that.” 

“ They inherit everything. One day perhaps they 
will see him standing, perhaps they will hear him, 
in the new houses where they will live. ... It 
would have been better if Elly and Lot had found 
their happiness apart from each other ... in other 
blood, in other souls. . . . They will never be able 
to find the ordinary happiness. Who knows, per¬ 
haps their children will be . . .” 

“ Hush, Ottilie, hush! ” 

“Criminals. ...” 

“"Ottilie, please be quiet! Oh, be quiet! Why do 
you speak like that? For years, it has been so 
peaceful. You see, Ottilie, we are too old. We 
have been allowed to grow so old. We have had 
our punishment. Oh, don’t let us speak about it 
again, never again! Let us wait calmly, calmly, and 
suffer the things that come after us, for we cannot 
alter them.” 

“ Yes, let us wait calmly.” 

“ Let us wait. It will come soon. It will come 
soon, for you and me.” 

His voice had sounded imploringly; his eyes shone 


THINGS THAT PASS 


51 

wet with terror. She sat stiff and upright in her 
chair; her fingers trembled violently in the deep, 
black folds of her lap. But a lethargy descended 
upon both of them; the strange lucidity and the 
anxious tension of their unaccustomed words seemed 
but for a moment to be able to galvanize their old 
souls, as though by a suggestion from without. Now 
they both grew lethargic and became very old in¬ 
deed. For a long time they stared, each at his 
window, without words. 

Then there was a ring at the front-door. 


CHAPTER ly 


It was Anton Dercksz, the old lady’s eldest son by 
her second marriage; by her first she had only an 
unmarried daughter, Stefanie de Laders. Anton 
also had never married; he had made his career in 
Java; he was an ex-resident. He was seventy-five, 
taciturn, gloomy and self-centred, owing to his long, 
lonely life, full of lonely thoughts about himself, 
the heady thoughts of a sensualist who, in his old 
age, had lapsed into a sensualist in imagination. 
. . . It had been his nature, first instinctively, 

then in a more studied fashion, to hide himself, not 
to give himself; not to give of himself even that 
which would have won him the praise and esteem 
of his fellow-men. Endowed with intelligence above 
the ordinary, a student, a man of learning, he had 
fostered that intelligence only for himself and had 
never been more than an average official. His self- 
centred, gloomy soul had demanded and still de¬ 
manded solitary enjoyments, even as his powerful 
body had craved for obscure pleasures. 

He entered in his overcoat, which he kept closely 
wrapped about him, feeling chilly, though it was 
still a sunny September and autumn had hardly given 
its first shiver. He came to see his mother once a 
week, from an old habit of respect and awe. Her 
52 


THINGS THAT PASS 53 

children—elderly men and women, all of them—all 
called regularly, but first asked Anna, the maid, with 
the cat always among her skirts, who was upstairs 
with Mamma. If some member of the family were 
there already, they did not go up at once, anxious 
on no account to tire her with too great a gathering 
and too many voices. Then Anna would receive them 
in the downstair morning-room, where she kept up a 
fire in the winter, and often the old servant would 
offer the visitor a brandy-cherry. If old Mr. Takma 
had only just arrived, Anna did not fail to say so; 
and the children or grandchildren would wait down¬ 
stairs for a quarter of an hour and longer, because 
they knew that Mamma, that Grandmamma liked 
to be alone for a while with Takma, her old friend. 
If Takma had been there some time, Anna would 
reckon out whether she could let them go upstairs 
at once. . . . The companion was not there in 

the afternoons, except when mevrouw sent for her, 
as sometimes happened when the weather was bad 
and nobody called. 

Anton Dercksz entered, hesitating because of 
Takma, uncertain whether he was intruding. The 
old woman’s children, however much advanced in 
years, continued to behave as children to the once 
stern and severe mother, whom they still saw in 
the authority of her motherhood. And Anton 
in particular always saw her like that, seated in 
that chair which was as an unyielding throne, strange 
in that very last and fragile life hanging from a 


54 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

brittle, invisible thread, which, in snapping, would 
have broken life’s last string. At the window, be¬ 
cause of a lingering ray of sunshine outside, the 
mother sat in a crimson twilight of curtains and 
valance, sat as if she would never move again un¬ 
til the moment came for the dark portals to open. 
For the “ children ” did not see her move, save 
with the single, angular gesture sometimes suggested 
by once active, but now gouty, slender, wand-like 
fingers. Anton Dercksz knew that—if the portals 
had not opened that day—his mother would move, 
round about eight o’clock, to be taken to bed by 
Anna and the companion. But he never saw this: 
what he saw was the well-nigh complete immobility 
of the brittle figure in the chair that was almost a 
throne, amid a twilight just touched with pink. Old 
man as he himself was, he was impressed by this. 
His mother sat there so strangely, so unreally: she 
sat waiting, waiting. Her eyes, already glazed, 
stared before her, sometimes as though she were 
afraid of something. . . . The lonely man had 

developed within himself an acute gift of observa¬ 
tion, a quick talent for drawing inferences, which 
he never allowed any one to perceive. For years 
he had held the theory that his mother was always 
thinking of something, always thinking of something, 
an invariable something. What could it be? . . . 
Perhaps he was mistaken, perhaps he looked too 
far, perhaps his mother’s expression was but the 
staring of almost sightless eyes. Or was she think- 


THINGS THAT PASS 55 

ing of hidden things in her life, things sunk in her 
life as in a deep, deep pool? Had she her secrets, 
as he had his, the secrets of his sullen hedonism? 
He was not inquisitive: everybody had his secrets; 
perhaps Mother had hers. He would never strive 
to find out. People had always said that Takma 
and Mother had been lovers: she no doubt thought 
of those old things ... or was she not thinking, 
was she merely waiting and staring out of her win¬ 
dow? . . . However this might be, his awe remained 
unchanged. 

“ It is lovely weather, for September,” he said, 
after the usual greetings. 

He was a big man, broad in his overcoat, with a 
massive florid face, in which deep folds hung beside 
the big nose and made dewlaps under the cheeks; 
the grey-yellow moustache bristled above a sensual 
mouth with thick, purple lips, which parted over the 
yellow teeth, crumbling, but still firm in their gums; 
the thick beard, however recently shaved, still left 
a black stubble on the cheeks; and a deep scar cleft 
the twice deeply-wrinkled forehead, which rose 
towards a thinning tuft of yellow-grey hair, with 
the head bald at the back of it. The skin of his 
neck was rough, above the low, stand-up collar, and 
grooved, though not quite so deeply, like that of 
an old labourer, with deep-ploughed furrows. His 
coarse-fisted hands lay like clods on his thick knees; 
and a watch-chain, with big trinkets, hung slackly 
over his great stomach, which had forced open a 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


56 

button of his worn and shiny waistcoat. His feet 
rested firmly on the carpet in their Wellington boots, 
whose tops showed round under the trouser-legs. 
This outward appearance betrayed only a rough, 
sensual, elderly man: it showed him neither in his 
intellect nor, above all, in his power of imagination. 
The great dream-actor that he was remained hidden 
from whoever saw him no otherwise than thus. 

Takma, so many years older, with his habit of 
gaiety and his sometimes shrill heartiness, which 
gave a birdlike sound to his old voice and a factitious 
glitter to his false teeth, Takma, in his short, loose 
jacket, had something delicate beside Anton Dercksz, 
something younger and more restless, together with 
a certain kindly, gentle, benevolent comprehension, 
as if he, the very old man, understood the whole^ 
life of the younger one. But this was just what 
always infuriated Anton with Takma, because he, 
Anton Dercksz, saw through it. It concealed some¬ 
thing: Takma hid a secret, though he hid it in a dif¬ 
ferent way from Anton Dercksz’. He hid a secret: 
when he started, with that jerk of his head, he was 
afraid that he had been seen through. . . . Well, 
Anton was not inquisitive. But this very old man, 
this former lover of his mother, of the woman who 
still filled Anton with awe when he saw her sitting 
erect, waiting, in her chair by the window: this old 
man annoyed him, irritated him, had always roused 
his dislike. He had never allowed it to show and 
Takma had never perceived it. 


THINGS THAT PASS 


57 

The three old people sat without exchanging 
many words, in the narrow drawing-room. The old 
woman had now calmly mastered herself, because 
her son, her “ child,” was sitting there and she had 
always remained calm before the splenetic glance 
of his slightly prominent eyes. Straight up she sat, 
as though enthroned, as though she were a sovereign 
by reason of her age and her authority, dignified 
and blameless, but so frail and fragile, as though 
the aura of death would presently blow away her 
soul. Her few words sounded a note of appreciation 
that her son had come to see her, asking, as was 
his filial duty, once a week, after her health. She 
was pleased at this; and it was not difficult for her 
to calm herself, suddenly put in a placid mood by 
that feeling of satisfaction, even though but now, 
as in a suggestion from without, she had been 
obliged to speak of former things which she had 
seen pass before her eyes. And, when the bell rang 
again, she said: 

“That’s the children, I expect. . 

They all three listened, in silence. Sharp-eared 
old Takma heard some one speaking to Anna in 
the hall: 

“ They’re asking if it won’t be too much for you,” 
said Takma. 

“ Anton, call down the stairs to have them 
shown up,” said the old lady; and her voice rang 
like a maternal command. 


58 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

Anton Dercksz rose, went to the door and called 
out: 

“ You can come up. Grandmamma’s expecting 
you.” 

Lot and Elly came in and their entrance was as 
though they feared to dispel the atmosphere around 
the old woman with the too-great youthfulness 
approaching her. But the old woman made an 
angular movement of her arms, which lifted them¬ 
selves in the black folds of the wide sleeves; and 
a hint of the gesture was given, gouty-stiff, in the 
crimson shade of the curtains, while she said: 

“So you’re going to get married; that’s right.” 

The gesture brought the mittened hands to the 
level of Lot’s head, which she held for a moment 
and kissed with a trembling mouth; she kissed Elly 
too; and the girl said, prettily: 

“Grandmamma. . . .” 

“ I am glad to see you both. Mamma has already 
told me the great news. Be happy, children, 
happy. . . .” 

The words sounded like a short speech from out 
of the twilight of the throne-like chair, but they 
trembled, breaking with emotion: 

“ Be happy, children, happy** Mamma had said. 

And Anton Dercksz seemed to see that his mother 
was thinking that there had not been many happy 
marriages in the family. He was conscious of the 
underlying thought in her words and was glad that 
he had never been married: it gave him a silent. 


THINGS THAT PASS 


59 

pleasurable sense of satisfaction, as he looked at 
Lot and Elly. They were sitting there so youthful 
and unwrung, he thought; but he knew that this was 
only on the surface, that Lot, after all, was thirty- 
eight and that this was not Elly’s first engagement. 
Yet how young those two lives were and how many 
vigorous years had they not before them! He be¬ 
came jealous at the thought and envious; and his 
eyes grew sullen when he reflected that vigorous 
years were no longer his. And, with the sly glance 
of a man secretly enjoying the sensual pleasures of 
the imagination, he asked himself whether Lot was 
really a fellow who ought to think of marrying. Lot 
was delicately built, was hardly a man of flesh and 
blood, was like his mother in appearance, with his 
pink face and his fair plastered hair, his short fair 
moustache above his cynical upper lip, and very 
spruce in his smooth-fitting jacket and the neat little 
butterfly tie beneath his double collar. And yet no 
fool, thought Anton Dercksz: his articles written 
from Italy, on Renascence subjects, were very good 
and Anton had read them with pleasure, without 
ever complimenting Lot upon them; and his two 
novels were excellent: one about the Hague, one 
about Java, with a keen insight into Dutch-Indian 
society. There was a great deal in the lad, more 
than one would think, for he looked not a man of 
flesh and blood, but a fair-haired, finikin doll, a 
fashion-plate. 

Elly was not pretty, had a pale but sensible little 


6 o 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

face: he did not believe that she was a woman of 
warm passion, or, if she was, it would not reveal 
itself till later. He did not expect that they would 
kiss each other very rapturously; and yet that was 
the most genuine consolation in this confounded life 
of ours, always had been so to him. Everything 
grew confused before his jaundiced eyes, in a regret 
for things that were lost; but nevertheless he lis¬ 
tened to the conversation, which was carried on 
calmly and quietly, in order not to tire Grand¬ 
mamma : when Lot and Elly meant to get married, 
where they would go for the honeymoon. 

“ We shall be married in three months,” said 
Lot. “There’s nothing to wait for. We shall go 
to Paris and on to Italy. I know Italy well and 
can show Elly about. . . . ” 

Anton Dercksz rose and took his leave; and, 
when he went downstairs, he found his sister, Ottilie 
Steyn de Weert, and Roelofsz, the old doctor, in 
the morning-room: 

“ The children are upstairs,” he said. 

“ Yes, I know, said Ottilie. “ That’s why I’m 
waiting; it would be too much for Mamma other¬ 
wise . . .” 

“ Well-well-well,” muttered the old doctor. 

He sat huddled in a chair, a shapeless mass of 
dropsical obesity: his one stiff leg was stuck out 
straight in front of him and his paunch hung side¬ 
ways over it in curving lines; his face, clean-shaven 
but bunched into wrinkles, was like the face of a 


THINGS THAT PASS 6i 

very old monk; his thin grey hair looked as if it 
were moth-eaten and hung in frayed wisps from 
his skull, which was shaped like a globe, with a 
vein at one temple meandering in high relief; he 
lisped and muttered exclamation upon exclamation; 
his watery eyes swam behind gold spectacles. 

“ Well-well-well, Ottilie, so your Lot is getting 
married at last! . . 

He was eighty-eight, the doctor, the last sur¬ 
viving contemporary of Grandmamma and Mr. 
Takma; he had brought Ottilie Steyn into the world, 
in Java, at a time when he was a young doctor, 
not long since arrived from Holland; and he called 
her either by her Christian name or “ child.” 

“ At last? ” cried Ottilie, in a vexed tone. “ It’s 
early enough for me! ” 

“ Yes-yes-yes, yes-yes, child; you’ll miss him, you’ll 
miss your boy, I daresay. . . . Still, they’ll make 
a nice couple, he and Elly, well-well, yes-yes-yes, 
working together, artistic, yes, well. . . . That 

good old Anna hasn’t started her fires yet! This 
room’s warm, but upstairs, yes-yes, it’s very chilly. 
. . . Takma’s always blazing hot inside, eh-eh? 

Well-well! Mamma likes a cool room too; well- 
well, cool: cold, / call it. I consider it warmer in 
here: ay-ay, it is warmer down here. Well-well! 
. . . Mamma wasn’t so well, child, yester¬ 
day. . . . ” 

“ Come, doctor,” said Anton Dercksz, “ you’ll 
make Mamma see a hundred yet! ” 


62 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

And he buttoned up his coat and went away, 
satisfied at having performed his filial duty for that 
week. 

“Oh-oh-oh!” cried the doctor; but Anton was 
gone. “ A hundred! A hundred! Oh-dear-no, oh- 
dear-no, tut-tut I No, I can do nothing, I can do 
nothing. Pm old myself, yes-yes. Pm old: eightee- 
eight years old, eightee-eight, Lietje! . . . Yes- 

yes, that counts, yes-yes. . . . No, / can do 

nothing more, what do you say? And it’s a good 
thing that Mamma’s got Dr. Thielens: he’s young, 
ay-ay, he’s young. . . . Here come the children! 
Well-well! ” the doctor continued, by way of 
greeting. “ Best congratulations, ay-ay, very nice I 
Art, eh, art for art’s sake? ... Is Granny better 
to-day? Then I’ll just go upstairs, yes-yes, well- 
well! . . .” 

“Where are you going now, children?” asked 
Mamma Ottilie. 

“ To Aunt Stefanie’s,” said Elly. “ And perhaps 
to Uncle Harold’s afterwards.” 

Anna let them out; and Ottilie, going upstairs 
behind Dr. Roelofsz, who hoisted himself up one 
step after the other, tried to understand what he 
was muttering, but understood nothing. He kept 
talking to himself: 

“ Yes-yes, that Anton, all-very-well, make her see 
a hundred! A hundred! Well, he^ll see a hundred 
all right, ay-ay, yes-yes, though he has been such a 
beast! . . . Yes-yes, yes-yes, a beast: don’t I 


THINGS THAT PASS 


63 

know him? Tut-tut! A beast, that’s what he’s 
been! . . . Yes-yes, perhaps he’s still at it!” 

“What do you say, doctor?” 

“ Nothing, child, nothing. . . . Make her see 

a hundred! I, /, who am old myself; eightee-eight 
. . . eightee-eight! . . 

Puffing with the effort of climbing the stairs, he 
entered and greeted the two old people, his con¬ 
temporaries, who nodded to him, each at a window: 

“Well-well, yes-yes, how-do, Ottilie? How-do, 
Takma? . . . Well-well, yes-yes. . . . Well, I 
don’t call it warm in here! . . . ” 

“ Come,” said Takma, “ it’s only Septem¬ 
ber. ...” 

“ Yes, you’re always blazing hot inside! . . .” 

Ottilie walked behind him, like a little child, and 
kissed her mother, very gently and carefully; and, 
when she went up to Takma afterwards, he pulled 
her hand, so that she might give him a kiss too. 


CHAPTER V 


Papa Dercksz had not left much behind him, but 
Stefanie de Laders, the only child of the first 
marriage, was a rich woman; and the reason why 
old Mamma had only a little left of her first 
husband’s fortune was because she had never 
practised economy. Stefanie, however, had saved 
and put by, never knowing why, from an inherited 
proclivity for adding money to money. She lived 
in a small house in the Javastraat and was known in 
philanthropic circles, devoting herself prudently and 
thriftily to good works. Lot and Elly found Aunt at 
home: she rose from her chair, amidst a twittering of 
little birds in little cages, and she herself had some¬ 
thing of a larger-sized little old bird: short, lean, 
shrivelled, tripping with little bird-like steps, restless, 
in spite of her years, with her narrow little shoulders 
and her bony hands, she was a very ugly little old 
woman, a little witch. Never having been mar¬ 
ried, devoid of passions, devoid of the vital flame, 
she had grown old unscathed in her little egoisms, 
with only one great fear, which had clung to her 
all her life: the fear of encountering Hell’s terrors 
after her death, which, after all, was drawing 
nearer. And so she was very religious, convinced 
64 


THINGS THAT PASS 65 

that Calvin knew all about it, for everybody and for 
all subsequent ages; and, trusting blindly in her 
faith, she read anything of this tendency on which 
she could lay hands, from paper-covered tracts to 
theological works, though she did not understand 
the latter, while the former left her full of 
shuddering. 

“ Quite a surprise, children! ” Aunt Stefanie de 
Laders screamed, as though Lot and Elly were deaf. 
“ And when are you getting married? ” 

“ In three months. Aunt.” 

“In church?” 

“ I don’t think so. Aunt,” said Lot. 

“ I thought as much! ” 

“ Then you made a good guess.” 

“ But it’s not the thing. Don’t you want to get 
married in church either, Elly?” 

“ No, Aunt, I agree with Lot. . . . May I say 
Aunt? ” 

“ Yes, certainly, child, say Aunt. No, it’s not the 
thing. But you get that from the Derckszes: they 
never thought of what might be in store for them 
hereafter. ...” 

The birds twittered and Aunt’s high-pitched voice 
sounded aggressive. 

“ If Grandpapa could be at the wedding, I should 
do it perhaps, for his sake,” said Elly. “ But he’s 
too old to come. Mamma Steyn doesn’t make a 
point of it either.” 

“No, of course not!” screamed Aunt Stefanie. 


66 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


“ You see, Aunt, you’re the only one in the family 
who does/* said Lot. 

He did not see Aunt Stefanie often; but, when 
he saw her, it amused him to draw her out. 

“ And there’s no need to do it for my sake,” said 
Aunt, self-righteously; and she thought to herself, 
“ They sha’n’t come in for a cent, if they don’t get 
married in church and do the proper thing. I had 
intended to leave them something: now I shall leave 
everything to Harold’s grandchildren. They at 
least behave properly. . . .” 

But, when Elly made as though to rise, Aunt, 
who was flattered at having visitors, said: 

“Well, stay a bit longer, come, Elly! I don’t 
see Lot so often; and he’s his aunt’s own nephew 
after all. . . . It’s not the thing, my boy. . . . 
You know, / just speak out. I’ve done so from a 
child. I’m the eldest: with a family like ours, 
which has not always behaved properly, I have 
always had to speak out. . . . I’ve shown a great 
deal of tact, however. But for me. Uncle Anton 
would have been quite lost, though even now he 
isn’t always proper. But leave him to his fate 
I will not. Uncle Daniel and especially Uncle 
Harold, with their children: how often haven’t they 
needed me! . . 


“ Aunt, you have always been invaluable,” said 
Lot. “ But you were not able to do much for Aunt 
Therese: she turned Catholic; and that wasn’t due 
to your influence, surely! ” 


THINGS THAT PASS 67 

“ Therese is lost! ” cried Aunt Stefanie, violently. 
“ IVe long since given up having anything to do 
with Therese. . . . But any one for whom I can 
do anything ... I sacrifice myself for. For 
Uncle Harold I do what I can, also for his child¬ 
ren; to Ina I am a second mother, also to D’Her- 
bourg: now there’s a proper man for you; and Leo 
and Gus are good and proper boys. . . .” 

“ Not forgetting Lily,” said Lot, “ who didn’t 
hesitate to call her first-born son after you, though 
I think Stefanus a queer sort of name I ” 

“ No, you’ll never call your children after me,” 
screamed Aunt, in between the birds, “ not though 
you get a dozen girls! What do you want me to 
say, my boy? Uncle Harold’s family has always 
shown me more affection than your mother’s family 
has; I got most perhaps from the Trevelley child¬ 
ren ! And yet God alone knows what your mother 
owes to me: but for me. Lot, she would have been 
lost! I’m not saying it to be unpleasant, my boy; 
but she would have been lost. Lot, but for me! 
Yes, you can feel grateful to me! You can see for 
yourself, your dear Mamma, twice divorced, from 
her first two husbands: no. Lot, that was anything 
but proper.” 

“ My dear Aunt, Mamma has always been the 
black sheep of our virtuous family.” 

“ No, no, no! ” said Aunt Stefanie, shaking her 
restless little bird-like head; and the birds around 
her agreed with her and twittered their assent. “ The 


68 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

family’s not so virtuous as that. Generally speak¬ 
ing, it has never been proper! I won’t say a word 
against my mother, but this much is certain: she 
lost my father too early. You can’t compare Papa 
Dercksz with him** 

“ Of course, there’s no comparing a Dercksz with 
a De Laders,” said Lot. 

“You’re being sarcastic!” said Aunt; and the 
birds twittered their indignation in sympathy. “ But 
there’s many a true word spoken in jest. I’m not 
saying it because of your mother, who’s a dear 
child, whom I’m fond of, but all the other Derckszes, 
with the exception of Uncle Harold, are . . 

“Are what. Aunt Stefanie?” 

“Are a sinful, hysterical crew!” cried Aunt 
Stefanie, aggressively. “ Uncle Anton, Uncle Daan, 
Aunt Therese and, my boy—though she’s not a 
Dercksz, it’s in her blood—your sister Ottilie as 
well! They’re a sinful, hysterical, crew! ” And 
she thought, “ Your mother’s one of them too, my 
boy, though I’m not saying so.” 

“ Then I’m once more glad,” said Lot, “ that my 
Dercksz hysteria is steadied by a certain Pauws 
calmness and sedateness.” And he thought, “ Aunt’s 
quite right, but it all comes from her own mother 
. . . only it happened to pass over Aunt 

Stefanie.” 

But Aunt went on, seconded by the birds: 

“ I’m not saying it to say anything unpleasant 
about the family, my boy. I daresay I’m hard, but 


THINGS THAT PASS 69 

I speak out properly. Who speaks out properly in 
our family? ” 

“You do, Aunt, you do!’’ 

“Yes, I do, I, I, I!” cried Aunt; and all the 
birds in all the cages twittered their agreement. 
“ Don’t go away just yet, stay a little longer, Elly. 
I think it’s so nice of you to have come. Elly, just 
ring the bell, will you? Then Klaartje will bring 
a brandy-cherry: I make them after the recipe of 
Grandmamma’s Anna; and she makes them pro¬ 
perly.” 

“Aunt, we must really be getting on.” 

“Come, just one cherry!” Aunt insisted; and 
the birds joined in the invitation. “ Otherwise Aunt 
will think that you’re angry with her for speaking 
out. . . .” 

The brandy-cherries were tasted; and this put 
Aunt in a good humour, even when Lot exclaimed, 
through the twittering of the birds: 

“ Aunt . . . have you never been hysterical? ” 

“I? Hysterical? No! Sinful, yes: I am sinful 
still, as we all are! But hysterical, thank God, I 
have never been! Hysterical, like Uncle Anton, 
Aunt Therese and . . . your sister Ottilie, I 

have never been, never! ” 

The birds could not but confirm this. 

“ But you’ve been in love, Aunt! I hope you’ll 
tell me the story of your romance one day; then 
I’ll make it into a very fine book.” 

“ You’ve put too much about the family into your 


70 THINGS THAT PASS 

sinful books, as it is, for Aunt ever to tell you that, 
though she had been in love ten times over. For 
shame, boy! You ought to be ashamed of your¬ 
self! Write a moral book that’s a comfort to read, 
but don’t go digging up sinfulness for the sake of 
describing it, however fine the words you choose 
may be.” 

“ So at any rate you think my words fine? ” 

“ I think nothing fine that you write, it’s accursed 
books that you write! . . . Are you really going 

now, Elly? Not because I don’t admire Lot’s books, 
I hope? No? Then just one more cherry. You 
should get the recipe from Anna, at Grandmamma’s. 
Well, good-bye, children; and think over what sort 
of present you’d like from Aunt. You can choose 
your own, child, you can choose your own. Aunt’ll 
give a present that’s the proper thing.” 

The birds agreed and, as Lot and Elly took their 
leave, twittered them lustily out of the room. 


CHAPTER VI 


“ Oof I ” said Lot, outside, putting two fingers in his 
ears, which had been deafened by the birds. “ No 
more uncles and cousins for the present, Elly: Pm 
not going to Uncle Harold and the D’Herbourgs 
after this! A grandmamma, a future grandpapa, an 
uncle, an aunt and a very old family-doctor: that’s 
enough antediluvianism for one day I I can’t do 
with any more old people to-day, not even Uncle 
Harold, who is far from being the most repellent. 
So many old people, all in one day: it’s too oppres¬ 
sive, it’s stifling! . . . Let’s walk a bit, if you’re 
not tired. It’s fine, the wind’ll refresh us, it won’t 
rain. . . . Come into the dunes with me. Here’s 
the steam-tram coming: we’ll take it as far as the 
Witte Brug^ and then go into the dunes. Come 
along!” 

They went by tram to the Witte Brug and were 
soon in the dunes, where they went and sat in the 
sand, with a strong sea-breeze blowing over their 
heads. 

“ I hope I shall never grow old,” said Lot. 
“ Elly, don’t you think it terrible to grow old, older 
everyday? . . .” 

“Your pet aversion, Lot?” asked Elly. 

^ The White Bridge. 


71 


72 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


She smiled. He looked at her seriously, almost 
pale in the face, but, because he saw her smiling, 
he managed to speak lightly: 

“ Worse than that. It’s my nightmare. To see 
more and more wrinkles every day in your skin, 
more streaks of grey in your hair; to feel your 
memory going; to feel the edge of your emotions 
growing blunt; to feel an extra crease in your 
stomach which spoils the fit of your waistcoat; to 
feel your powers waning and your back bending 
under all the weight of the past which you drag 
along with you . . . without being able to do a 

thing to prevent it! . . . When your suit gets 
old, you buy a new one: I’m speaking from the 
capitalist’s point of view. But your body and soul 
you get once for all and you have to take them with 
you to the grave. If you economize with either of 
them, then you haven’t lived, whereas, if you 
squander them, you have to pay for it. . . . And 
then that past, which you tow and trail along! 
Every day adds its inexorable quota. We are just 
mules, dragging along till we can go no farther and 
till we drop dead with the effort. . . . Oh, Elly, 
it’s terrible! Think of those old people of to-day! 
Think of Grandpapa Takma and Grandmamma! I 
look upon them as something to shudder at. . . . 
There they sit, nearly every day, ninety-three and 
ninety-seven, each looking out of a window. What 
do they talk about? Not much, I expect: their little 
ailments, the weather; people as old as that don’t 


THINGS THAT PASS 


73 

talk, they are numbed. They don’t remember 
things. Their past is heavy with years and crushes 
them, gives them only a semblance of life, of the 
aftermath of life: they’ve had their life. . . . 

Was it interesting or not? You know, I think it 
must have been interesting for those old people, 
else they wouldn’t trouble to meet now. They must 
have lived through a good deal together.” 

“ They say that Grandpapa . . .” 

“ Yes, that he was Grandmamma’s lover. . . . 
Those old people: to believe that, when you see them 
now! . . . To realize love . . . passion . . . 
in those old people! . . . They must have lived 

through a lot together. I don’t know, but it has 
always seemed to me, when I see them together, as 
if there were something being wafted between them, 
something strange, to and fro: something of a 
tragedy which has become unravelled and of which 
the last threads, now almost loose, are hovering 
between the two of them. . . . And yet their 

souls must be numbed: I cannot believe that they 
talk much; but they look at each other or out of 
the window: the loose threads hover, but still bind 
their lives together. . . . Who knows, perhaps it 
was interesting, in which case it might be something 
for a novel. . . .” 

“Have you no idea, at the moment?” 

“ No, it’s years since I had an idea for a novel. 
And I don’t think that I shall write any more. You 
see, Elly, I’m getting . . i.j too old to write 


74 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

for very young people; and who else reads 
novels? ” 

“ But you don’t write only for the public; you have 
your own ideal of art! ” 

“ It’s such a barren notion, that principle. All 
very fine when you’re quite young: then it’s delight¬ 
ful to swagger a bit with that ideal of art; you go 
in for it then as another goes in for sport or a 
cultivated palate. . . . Art really isn’t everything. 
It’s a very beautiful thing, but, properly speaking, 
it oughtn’t to be an aim in life. Artists combine a 
great deal of pretentiousness with what is really a 
small aim.” 

“ But, Lot, the influence they exercise . . .” 

“With a book, a painting, an opera? Even to 
the people who care about it, it’s only an insignifi¬ 
cant pleasure. Don’t go thinking that artists wield 
great influence. All our arts are little ivory towers, 
with little doors for the initiate. They influence life 
hardly at all. All those silly definitions of art, of 
Art with a capital A, which your modern authors 
give you—art is this, art is that—are just one series 
of exaggerated sentences. Art is an entertainment; 
and a painter is an entertainer; so is a composer; 
so is a novelist.” 

“ Oh, no. Loti ” 

“ I assure you it is so. You’re still so precious 
in your conception of art, Elly, but it’ll wear away, 
dear. It’s an affectation. Artists are entertainers, 
of themselves and others. They have always been 


THINGS THAT PASS 


75 

so, from the days of the first troubadours, in the 
finest sense of the word. Make the sense of it as 
fine as you please, but entertainers they remain. An 
artist is no demigod, as we picture him when we are 
twenty-three, like you, Elly. An entertainer is what 
he is; he entertains himself and others; usually he 
is vain, petty, envious, jealous, ungenerous to his 
fellow-entertainers, puffed up with his principles and 
his art, that noble aim in life; just as petty and 
jealous as any one else in any other profession. 
Then why shouldn’t I speak of authors as enter¬ 
tainers? They entertain themselves with their own 
sorrows and emotions; and with a melancholy sonnet 
or a more or less nebulous novel they entertain the 
young people who read them. For people over 
thirty, who are not in the trade, no longer read 
novels or poems. I myself am too old to write for 
young people. When I write now, I have the bour¬ 
geois ambition to be read by my contemporaries, by 
men getting on for forty. What interests them is 
actual life, seen psychologically, but expressed in con¬ 
crete truths and not reflected in a mirage and poet¬ 
ized and dramatized through fictitious personages. 
That’s why I’m a journalist and why I enjoy it. 
I like to grip my reader at once and to let him 
go again at once, because neither he nor I have 
any time to spare. Life goes on. But to-morrow I 
grip him again; and then again I don’t want to 
charm him any longer than I grip him. In our 
ephemeral lives, this, journalism, is the ephemeral 


76 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

and the true art, for I want the form of it to be 
frail but chaste. ... I don’t say that I have got 
so far myself; but that is my artistic ideal. . . 

“Then will you never write any more novels?” 

“ Who can say what he will or will not do again? 
Say it . . . and you do something different all 

the same. Who knows what I shall be saying or 
doing in a year’s time? If I knew Grandmamma’s 
inner life, I should perhaps write a novel. It is 
almost history; and, even as I take an interest in 
the story of our own time, in the anticipation of 
our future, so history has a great charm for me, 
even though history depresses humanity and human 
beings and though our own old folk depress me. 
Grandmamma’s life is almost history: emotions and 
events of another period. . . .” 

“ Lot, I wish you would begin to work seri¬ 
ously.” 

“ I shall start working as soon as we are in Italy. 
The best thing, Elly, is not to think of setting up 
house yet. Not with Mamma and also not by our¬ 
selves. Let us go on wandering. When we are 
very old it will be time enough to roost permanently. 
What draws me to Italy is her tremendous past. I 
try to reach antiquity through the Renascence, but 
I have never got so far and in the Forum I still 
think too much of Raphael and Leonardo.” 

“ So first to Paris . . . and then Nice . . .” 

“ And on to Italy if you like. In Paris we shall 
look up another aunt.” 


77 


THINGS THAT PASS 

‘‘Aunt Therese?” 

“ Yes. That’s the one who is more Catholic 
than the Pope. And at Nice Ottilie. . . . Elly, 
you know that Ottilie lives with an Italian, she’s not 
married: will you be willing to see her all the 
same? ” 

“ I should think so,” said Elly, with a gentle smile. 
“ I am very anxious to see Ottilie again. . . . The 
last time was when I heard her sing at Brussels.” 

“ She has a heavenly voice . . .” 

“ And she’s a very beautiful woman.” 

“ Yes, she is like Papa, she is tall, she doesn’t take 
after Mamma a bit. . . . She could never get on 
with Mamma. And of course she spent more of 
her time with Papa. . . . She’s no longer young, 
she’s two years older than I. . . . It’s two years 
since I saw her. . . . What will she be like ? I 

wonder if she is still with her Italian. . . . Do 

you know how she met him? By accident, in the 
train. They travelled in the same compartment 
from Florence to Milan. He was an officer. They 
talked to each other . . . and they’ve been together 
ever since. He resigned his commission, so as to go 
with her wherever she was singing. ... At least, 
I believe they are still together. . . . ‘ Sinful and 
hysterical,’ Aunt Stefanie would say! . . . Who 

knows? Perhaps Ottilie met a great happiness 
. . . and did not hesitate to seize it. . . . 
Ah, most people hesitate ... . and grope 
about! ...” 


^8 THINGS THAT PASS 

“ We’re different from Ottilie, Lot, and yet we 
don’t grope ... or hesitate. . . .” 

“ Elly, are you quite sure that you love me? ” 

She bent over him where he lay, stretched out in 
the sand, leaning on his two elbows. She felt her 
love inside her very intensely, as a glowing need to 
live for him, to eliminate herself entirely for his 
sake, to stimulate him to work, but to great, very 
great work. . . . That was the way in which her 
love had blossomed up, after her grief. . . . 

Under the wide sky, in which the clouds drifted like 
a great fleet of ships with white, bellying sails, a 
doubt rose in her mind for perhaps one moment, 
very vaguely and unconsciously, whether he would 
need her as she herself intended to give herself. 
. . . But this vague, unconscious feeling was 
dissipated in the breeze that blew over her temples; 
and her almost motherly love was so intense and 
glowing that she bent over him and kissed him and 
said, quite convinced and certain of herself, though 
not so certain of life and the future: 

“ Yes, Lot, I am sure of It.” 

Whatever doubt he may have entertained was 
scattered In smiles from his soul after this tender 
and simple affirmation that she loved him, as he felt, 
for himself alone, in a gentle, wondering bliss that 
already seemed to see happiness approaching. ... 


CHAPTER VII 


Harold Dercksz, the second son, was seventy- 
three, two years younger than Anton. He was a 
widower and lived with his only daughter, Ina, who 
had married Jonkheer ^ d’Herbourg and had three 
children: Lily, a young, flaxen-haired little woman, 
married to Van Wely, an officer in the artillery, 
and two boys, Pol and Gus, who were at the uni¬ 
versity and the grammar-school respectively. 

It was sometimes very unpleasant for Ina 
d’Herbourg that her father’s family, taken all 
round, did not display a correct respectability more 
in keeping with the set in which she moved. She 
was quite at one with Aunt Stefanie—with whom 
she curried favour for other reasons too—and she 
agreed with Aunt that Grandmamma had been ill- 
advised, after having married a De Laders, to get 
married again to one of the much less distinguished 
Derckszes: this though Ina herself was a Dercksz 
and though her very existence would have been 
problematical if Grandmamma had not remarried. 
Ina, however, did not think so far as this: she was 
merely sorry not to be a De Laders; and the best 
thing was to mention Papa’s family as little as 
possible. For this reason she denied Uncle Anton, 

‘ A Dutch title of nobility, ranking below that of baron. 

79 



8o 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


as far as her acquaintances were concerned, he being 
a discreditable old reprobate, about whom the queer¬ 
est stories were rumoured. At the same time, he 
was a moneyed uncle; and so she caused him to be 
kept in view, especially by the young Van Wely 
couple, for Ina, in her very small soul, was both a 
good daughter to her father and a good mother 
to her children and would like to see Uncle Anton 
leave his money—how much would he have?—to 
her children. Then there was the Indian family of 
Uncle Daniel, who was Papa’s partner in business 
in Java and who came over to Holland at regular 
intervals: well, Ina was glad when business went 
well—for that meant money in the home—and 
when Uncle Daniel and fat, Indian Aunt Floor 
were safe on board the outward mail again, for^ 
really they were both quite unpresentable. Uncle 
with his East-Indian ways and Aunt such a nonna ^ 
that Ina was positively ashamed of her! Well, 
then, in Paris you had Aunt Therese van der 
Staff, who, after leading a pretty loose life, had 
turned Catholic: there you were, that again 
was so eccentric! The De Laders had always been 
Walloons^ and the D’Herbourgs also were always 

^ A half-caste. 

* The Walloon Protestants are a branch of the French 
Calvinists imported into the Netherlands at the revocation of 
the Edict of Nantes. They differ from the general body of 
Dutch Calvinists only in the use of the French language and 
the Geneva Catechism. They are gradually dying out as a 
separate body. 


THINGS THAT PASS 


8i 


Walloons: really, Walloonism was more disting¬ 
uished than Catholicism, at the Hague. The best 
thing was . . . just never to mention Aunt 

Therese. Last but not least, there was Aunt 
Ottilie Steyn de Weert, living at the Hague, alas, 
three times married and twice divorced! And she 
had a daughter who was a singer and had gone to 
the bad and a son who had written two immoral 
novels: oh, that was a terrible thing for Ina 
d’Herbourg, you know; it was such bad form and 
so incorrect; and all their acquaintances knew about 
it, though she never mentioned Aunt Ottilie or her 
three husbands, who were all three alive! And, 
when Ina d’Herbourg thought of Aunt Steyn de 
Weert, she would cast up her weary, well-bred eyes 
with a helpless air and heave a deep sigh; and, with 
that glance and her despair, she looked an entire 
IJsselmonde. For she herself, she thought, in¬ 
herited more of the aristocratic blood of her mother, 
a Freule ^ IJsselmonde, than of her father’s 
Dercksz blood. An only daughter, she had been 
able, through the Aunts IJsselmonde, to mix in 
rather better circles than the all too East-Indian 
circle of her father’s family, in so far as that circle 
existed, for the family was little known in society: 
an isolation seemed to reign around the Derckszes, 
who knew very few people; and even her mother, 
when she was still alive, had never been able to push 

^ The title borne by the unmarried daughters of Dutch 
noblemen. 


82 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

Papa forward as something of a specialist In East- 
Indian affairs and make him aim at the colonial 
secretaryship, hard though she had tried to do so. 

No, Father was not to be dragged out of his 
innate, silent timidity; and, though he was quite 
gentle and amenable, though he joined in paying all 
the visits that were deemed essential, though he 
gave dinners and went out to dinner, he remained 
the man he was, a quiet, peaceful man of business, 
ailing in health and silently broken in soul, with 
pain and suffering in his eyes and around his mouth, 
but never complaining and always reticent. Harold 
Dercksz was now a tall, thin old man; and that 
intermittent suffering and eternal silence seemed to 
grow worse with the years of sorrow and pain, 
seemed no longer capable of concealment; yet he 
spoke of it to nobody but his doctor and not much 
to him. For the rest, he was silent, never talked 
about himself, not even to his brother Daan, who 
came at regular intervals to Holland on the business- 
matters in which they were both Interested. 

Ina d’Herbourg was a good daughter: when her 
father was ill, she looked after him as she looked 
after everything in the house, correctly and not 
without affection. But she did sometimes ask her¬ 
self whether her mother had not been disappointed 
in her marriage, for Papa had not much money, 
in spite of all the Indian business. Yes, Mamma 
had been disappointed financially; and financial 
disappointment was always facing Ina too. But, 


THINGS THAT PASS 83 

when Ina’s husband, Leopold d’Herbourg—who, 
after taking his degree in law, had first thought of 
entering the diplomatic service, but who, in spite 
of his self-importance, had not felt himself 
sufficiently gifted for that career and was now a 
briefless barrister—when Ina’s husband was also 
disappointed with the Indian money, then Ina, after 
a few domestic scenes, began to think that it would 
be her. fate always to long for money and never to 
have any. Now, it was true, they lived in a big 
house and Papa was very generous and bore the 
whole expense of keeping Pol at Leiden; but yet 
things didn’t go easily with Ina, the money trickled 
through her fingers and she would very much have 
liked to see more money about, a great deal more 
money. That was why she was pleasant to Aunt 
Stefanie de Laders and pleasant, furtively, to Uncle 
Anton. 

Her fate continued to persecute her: instead of 
Lily’s waiting a little and making a good match, 
she had fallen so deeply in love, when hardly twenty, 
with Frits van Wely, a penniless subaltern, that 
Ina could do nothing, especially when Papa said: 

“ Do let the children be happy! . . .” 

And he had given them an allowance, but it meant 
sheer poverty; and yet Frits and Lily were married 
and in less than no time there was a boy. Then the 
only thing that Ina could induce them to do was 
to call the baby after Aunt Stefanie. 

“Stefanus?” Lily exclaimed, in dismay. 




84 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

Well, anything for a quiet life! They would call 
the boy Stef, which sounded rather nice, for Aunt 
would never hear of Etienne. Ina would have 
liked Stefanus Anton best; but to this Frits and Lily 
would not consent. 

It was a principle of Ina d’Herbourg’s never to 
talk about money and never about the family; but, 
because principles are very difficult to maintain, 
there was always talk about money in the D’Her- 
bourgs’ house and a great deal of talk about the 
family. Both were grateful subjects of conversation 
between Ina and her husband; and, now that Lot 
Pauws was engaged to Elly Takma, the talk flowed 
on of its own accord, one evening after dinner, while 
Harold Dercksz sat looking silently in front of him. 

“How much do you think they’ll have, Papa?” 
asked Ina. 

The old gentleman made a vague gesture and went 
on staring. 

“ Lot, of course, has nothing,” said D’Herbourg. 
“ His parents are both alive. I daresay he makes 
something by those articles of his, but it can’t amount 
to much.” 

“What does he get for an article?” asked Ina, 
eager to know at all costs. 

“ / don’t know, I haven’t the remotest notion! ” 
cried D’Herbourg. 

“ Do you think he’ll get anything from old Pauws? 
He lives in Brussels, doesn’t he? ” 

“Yes, but old Pauws has nothing either! ’* 


THINGS THAT PASS 


^5 

“ Or from Aunt Ottilie ? She has the money her 
father left her, you know. Steyn has nothing, has 
he. Father? Besides, why should Steyn give Lot 
anything? ” 

“ No,” said D’Herbourg. “ But old Mr. Takma 
has plenty: Elly’s sure to get something from him.” 

“ I can’t understand how they are going to live,” 
said Ina. 

“ They won’t have less than Lily and Frits.” 

“ But I can’t understand how those two are going 
to live either! ” Ina retorted. 

“ Then you should have found your daughter a 
rich husband I ” 

“ Please,” said Ina, wearily closing the well-bred 
eyes, with the glance of the IJsselmondes, “ don’t 
let us talk about money. I’m sick and tired of it. 
And other people’s money . . . \s le moindre de 
mes soucis. I don’t care in the least how another 
person lives. . . . Still ... I believe that 

Grandmamma is better off than we think.” 

“ I know roughly how much she ought to have,” 
said D’Herbourg. “ Deelhof the solicitor was say¬ 
ing the other day . . .” 

“ How much? ” asked Ina, eagerly; and the weary 
eyes brightened up. 

But, because he saw an expression of pain come 
over his father-in-law’s face and wrinkle it and 
because he did not know whether the pain was 
physical or moral, arising from gastritis or from 
nerves, D’Herbourg evaded the question. It was 


86 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


difficult, however, to stop at once, even though Papa 
did look pained, and so he said: 

“ Aunt Stefanie must be comfortably off.” 

“ Yes, but I should think,” said Ina, “ considering 
how Uncle Anton used to hoard while he was a resi¬ 
dent. that he’s much better off than Aunt Stefanie. 
As an unmarried man, he never entertained during 
his term of office: that I know for a fact. The 
resident’s house was tumbling to pieces when he left 
it after eight years. . . 

“ But Uncle Anton is an old reprobate,” said 
D’Herbourg, forcibly, “ and that cost him money.” 

** No! said Harold Dercksz. 

He said it as though in pain, waving his hand in 
a gesture of denial; but he had no sooner uttered 
this single word in defence of his brother than he 
regretted it, for Ina asked, eagerly: 

“ No, Papa? But surely Uncle Anton’s life won’t 
bear investigation . . .” 

And D’Herbourg asked: 

“ Then how was he able to be such a beast, with¬ 
out paying for his pleasures? . . .” 

Harold Dercksz cast about for a word in pallia¬ 
tion; he said: 

“ The women were fond of Anton . . . ” 

“ Women? Flappers, you mean! ” 

“No, no!*^ Harold Dercksz protested, repudi¬ 
ating the suggestion with his lean old hand. 

“ Ssh I ” said Ina, looking round. 

The boys entered. 


THINGS THAT PASS 


87 

“ Why, Uncle Anton was had up thirty years 
ago! ” D’Herbourg continued. 

“ No, no,’’ Harold Dercksz protested. 

Pol, the student, and Gus, the younger boy, 
entered; and there was no more talk about money 
and the family that evening; and, because of the boys, 
the after-dinner tea went off pleasantly. Truly, Ina 
was a good mother and had brought her boys up 
well: because of old Grandfather, they were gay 
without being noisy, which always gave Harold 
Dercksz an agreeable, homely feeling; and they were 
both very polite, to the great contentment of Ina, 
who was able to say that Pol and Gus did not get 
that from the Derckszes: when Grandfather rose to 
go to his study upstairs, Gus flew to the door and 
held it open, with very great deference. The old 
man nodded kindly to his grandson, tapped him on 
the shoulder and went up the stairs, reflecting that 
Ina was a good daughter, though she had her faults. 
He liked living in her house. He would have felt 
very lonely by himself. He was fond of those two 
boys. They represented something young, some¬ 
thing that was still on its way to maturity, merrily 
and gaily, those two young-boyish lives: they were 
not, like all the rest, something that passed, things 
that passed, slowly and threateningly, for years and 
years and years. . . . 

On reaching his study, Harold Dercksz turned up 
the gas and dropped into his chair and stared. Life 
sometimes veiled things, veiled them silently, those 


88 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


terrible, life-long things, and then they did not 
threaten so greatly and, until death came and wiped 
them away, they passed, passed always, however 
slowly they might pass. But they passed away 
very slowly, the things. He was an old man now, 
a man of seventy-three, and an infirm old man, 
dragging his old age to the grave for which he was 
yearning. How many sufferings had he not endured! 
He could not understand why he need grow so old, 
while the things passed so slowly, went silently by, 
but with such a trailing action, as though they, the 
things of the past, were ghosts trailing very long 
veils over very long paths and as though the veils 
rustled over the whirling leaves that fluttered upon 
the paths. All his long aftermath of life he had 
seen the things go past and he had often failed to 
understand how seeing them go past like that was 
not too much for a man’s brain. But the things had 
dragged their veils and the leaves had just rustled: 
never had the threat been realized; no one had 
stepped from behind a tree; the path had remained 
desolate under his eyes; and the path wound on and 
on and the ghostly things went past. . . . Some¬ 
times they looked round, with ghostly eyes; some¬ 
times they went on again, with dragging slowness: 
they were never brought to a standstill. He had 
seen them pass silently through his childhood, 
through his boyhood, when he was the age of Pol 
and Gus; he had seen them pass through his very 
commonplace life as a coffee-planter in Java and a 



THINGS THAT PASS 89 

manufacturer afterwards and through his married 
life with a woman whose existence he had come to 
share by mistake, even as she had come by mistake 
to share his: he, doubtless, because he did nothing 
but see those things, the things that passed. . . 

He now coughed, a hard, dry cough, which hurt his 
chest and stomach and sent jolts shooting through 
his shrunken legs. . . . 

Oh, how much longer would it last, his seeing the 
things ? . . . They went past, they went past and 
loitered and loitered. . . . Oh, why did they not 
go faster? . . . From the time when he was a 

little fellow of thirteen, a merry, sportive little fellow 
playing barefoot in the river before the assistant- 
resident’s house, rejoicing in the fruit, the birds, the 
animals, rejoicing in all the glad child-life of a boy 
in Java who can play in big grounds, beside running 
waters, and climb up tall, red-blossoming trees; from 
the moment—a sultry night, the dark sky first 
threatening and then shedding heavy, clattering 
torrents of rain—from the moment when he saw 
the things, the first things, the first terrible Thing: 
from that moment a confusion had crept over his 
tender brain like a monster which had not exactly 
crushed the child, but which had ever since possessed 
it, held it in its claws. . . . All the years of his 

life, he had seen the Thing rise up again, like a vision, 
the terrible Thing begotten and born in that night 
when, being no doubt a little feverish, he had been 
unable to sleep under the heavy, leaden night, which 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


90 

still held up the rain in powerful sails that could not 
burst and allowed no air through for him to breathe. 
The vision? No, the Thing, the actual Thing . . . 

* 


He He 

A lonely pasangrahan ^ in the mountains: he is 
there alone with his two parents, he the darling of 
his father, who is taking his sick-leave. The other 
brothers and the sisters have been left behind in the 
town, in the assistant-resident’s house. 

He cannot sleep and he calls: 

''come here! . . .” 

She does not answer. Where is she? As a rule, 
she lies outside his door, on her little mat, and wakes 
at once. 

Bahoe, haboe, come here ! ” 

He becomes impatient; he Is a big boy, but he is 
frightened, because he has a touch of fever too, like 
Papa, and because the night is so sultry, as though 
an earthquake were at hand. 

Bahoe! ...” 

She is not there. 

He struggles up and gets entangled in the 
klamhoe,^ which he is unable to open in his feverish 
terror. . . . He now releases himself from the 

muslin folds and is again about to call out for his 

* Dak bungalow. 


® Mosquito-curtain. 


THINGS THAT PASS 


91 

bahoe . . . but he hears voices, whispering, in 
the back verandah. . . . The blood curdles in 
the boy’s body: he thinks of thieves, of ketjoes,^ and 
is horribly frightened. . . . No, they are not 

speaking Javanese: they are not ketjoes. They are 
speaking Dutch, with Malay in between; and he next 
recognizes Baboe’s voice. And he tries to utter a 
scream of fright, but his fright prevents him. . . . 
What are they doing, what is happening? The boy 
is clammy, cold. . . . He has heard his mother’s 
voice: he now recognizes the voice of Mr. Emile, 
Mr. Takma, the secretary, who is so often at the 
house in the town. . . . Oh, what are they doing 
out there in the dark? . . . He was frightened 

at first, but now he is cold rather and shivers and 
does not know why. . . . What can be happening? 
What are Mamma and Mr. Takma and Ma-Boeten 
doing out there in the night? . . . His curiosity 

overcomes his terrors. He keeps very quiet, only 
his teeth chatter; he opens the door of his room, 
very gently, to prevent its creaking. The middle 
verandah is dark, the back verandah is dark. . . . 

“ Hush, bahoe, hush, O my God, hush! . . . 

Quietly, quietly. . ., . If the sinjo ^ should 

hear! . . .” 

“ He’s asleep, kandjeng,^ ...” 

“ If the ^ should hear I . . .” 

* Native robber-bands. 

^ The young gentleman. 

® Mem-sahib. 

* From the Dutch oppasser: overseer, watchman. 


92 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


“ He’s asleep, ...” 

“ O my God, O my God, if he should wake I . . • 
Oh, baboe, baboe, what are we to do? >: >” 

“ Be quiet, Ottilie, be quiet! . . .” 

“ Nothing else for it, kandjeng: in the river, in 
the river I . . . ” 

“ O my God, O my God, no, no, not in the river I ” 
“ Do keep quiet, Ottilie! ” 

“ O my God, no, not in the river! ” 

“ It’s the only way, Ottilie! Be quiet, be quiet I 
Hold your tongue, I say! Do you want to get us 
both taken up . . . for murder?” 

“I? Did I murder him?” 

I couldn’t help it! I acted in self-defence! You 
hated him, I didn’t, Ottilie. But you did it with 
me.” 

“ Oh, my God, no, no! ” 

“ Don’t try to avoid your share of the blame! ” 
“No, no, no!” 

“ You hung on to him . . .” 

“Yes, no ...” 

“ When I snatched his kris from him! ” 

“Yes . . . yes . . .” 

“ Hush, kandjeng, hush! ” 

“ O my God, O my God, it’s lightening! . . . 
Oh, what a clap, what a clap! ” 

The mountains echo the rolling thunder, again 
and again and yet again. The torrent pours down, 
as though the rain-sails were tearing. . , 

The boy hears his mother’s scream* 


THINGS THAT PASS 


93 


“ Quiet, Ottilie, quiet! ” 

“ I can bear it no longer, I shall faint! ” 

“ Be quiet! Hold his leg. Baboe, you take the 
other leg! ” 

“ There’s blood, on the floor. . . 

“ Wipe it up.” 

“ Presently, oh, presently! . . . First 

to the river. . . .” 

‘‘Omy God, O my God!” 

The boy’s teeth chatter and his eyes start from 
his head and his heart thumps, in his fever. He is 
mortally frightened, but he wants to see, too. He 
does not understand and, above all, he wants to see. 
His childish curiosity wants to see the terrible Thing 
which he does not yet understand. Silently, on his 
bare feet, he steals through the dark verandah. And, 
in the dim light of the night outside ... he sees! 
He sees the Thing! A flash of lightning, terrible; 
a clap of thunder, as if the mountains were falling 
. . . and he has seen! He is now looking only 

at vagueness, the vague progress of something which 
they are carrying ... of somebody whom they 
are carrying. Mamma, Mr. Emile and Ma-Boeten. 
In his innocence, he does not realize whom. In his 
innocence, he thinks only of terrible things and 
people, of robbers and treasures, of creepy incidents 
in his story-books. . . . Whom are they carrying 

through the garden? Can’t Papa hear them? Won’t 
he wake? Is he so fast asleep? 

Now he no longer hears their voices. . l*j 


,, Now 


94 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

they have disappeared in the garden. . . . Doesn’t 
the oppas hear? . . . No, everything remains 

quiet; everything has disappeared in the darkness 
and the rain; he sees nothing but the rain pouring 
in torrents, pelting, pelting, furiously. The furious 
pelting prevents Father and Oppas from hearing.’ 
. . . The sky has burst and all the rain in the sky 
is pelting down. . . . He is shivering with cold 

and fever. And suddenly he feels his little bare foot 
stepping on something warm and soft. ,.i ,, . It is 
blood, clotted blood. . . . 

He no longer dares to move forwards or back¬ 
wards. He stands with his teeth chattering and all 
the clatter of the rain around him. . . . But he 

must wake his father, take refuge with him, hide him¬ 
self in his arms and sob and sob with fright! . . . 
He gropes his way back to the middle verandah; he 
sees the door of Mamma’s room standing open: a 
little lamp is flickering faintly. Again his foot feels 
the soft warmth and he shudders at the terrible mire, 
which is blood, clotted blood, and lies everywhere, 
on the matting. But he wants to get to the little 
lamp, to take it with him to Papa’s room, so far 
away, near the front verandah. He goes to the 
lamp and takes it and sees Mamma’s bed all tumbled, 
with the pillows on the floor. . . . And he now 

sees the red on the floor, already almost black, and 
he is terrified and feels icy cold and steps aside with 
the lamp, so as not to tread on a kris, a handsome 
presentation weapon, which Papa received from the 


THINGS THAT PASS 


95 

Regent ^ yesterday! There it lies . . . and the 

blade is red! Now everything is misty-red before 
his childish eyes, oh, terribly red in the verandah, 
with its dancing shadows, through which he, so small, 
goes with his little lamp, in his terror and fever: 
perhaps he is dreaming! . . . To Papa’s room: 

“ Papa, oh. Papa, oh, Papa! ” 

He is stammering with fright, at his wits’ end 
without Papa’s protection. 

He opens Papa’s door: 

“ Papa, oh. Papa, oh. Papa! ” 

He goes up to the bed with his little lamp in his 
hand. Papa has slept in the bed, but is not there 
now. . . . Where is Papa? . . . And of a 
sudden it stands revealed to his childish mind. He 
sees the terrible Thing, sees it as a dreadful, awful, 
blood-red haunting vision. What they carried away 
through the garden, through the pouring rain, to the 
river . . . was Papa, was Papa! What Mamma 
and Mr. Emile and Ma-Boeten are carrying away 
outside ... is Papa! . . . He is all alone in 
the house . . . Papa is dead and they are carry¬ 

ing him to the river. . . . He has seen the Thing. 
. . . He goes on seeing the Thing. . . . He 

will always see it. . . . He does not know why— 
he has suddenly grown years older—but he shuts 
Papa’s door, goes back, puts Mamma’s lamp where 
he found it and goes back to his own room. He 
trembles in the dark and his teeth chatter and his 

^ A title of an independent native prince, equivalent to rajah. 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


96 

eyes start and stare out of his head. But he washes 
his feet, in the dark, and at once flings the towel into 
the linen-basket. He creeps into bed, pulls the 
klamhoe to, pulls the coverlet over his ears. And 
he lies shaking with fever. The iron bedstead 
underneath him trembles in unison. He is alone in 
the pasangrahan and he has seen the terrible Thing: 
first the actual progress of it and then the revealing 
vision, in the glare of the lightning-flashes, under the 
roar of the mountain-cleaving thunder. He lies and 
shakes. . . . How long does it last? How long 
does it last? . ,. . Half an hour, three-quarters 

of an hour. . . . He hears Baboe coming back 

and Mamma moaning, sobbing, groaning and 
Ma-Boeten muttering: 

“ Hush, hush! ...” 

“ They’re sure to have seen us! . . .” 

“ No, there was no one there. . . . Think of 

Sinjo Harold, kandjeng! . . .” 

Everything becomes still. . .. . 

Deathly still. ..." 

The boy lies shaking with fever; and all night 
long his starting eyes stare and he sees the 
Thing. . . . 

He has seen it ever since; and he has grown to 
be an old man. . . . 

Next day. Papa’s body is discovered among the 
great boulders in the river. There are suggestions 
of a perkara ^ with a woman, in the kampong^^ of 

^ Business, fuss, bother. “ Compound. 


THINGS THAT PASS 97 

jealousy. But Dr. Roelofsz finds that the wound 
was caused by nothing more than a sharp rock, to 
which Dercksz tried to cling, when drowning. . . . 
No need to credit natives’ gossip. . . . No 
question of a murder. . . . The controller draws 
up the report: Assistant-resident Dercksz—staying 
temporarily in the pasangrahan, unable to sleep 
because of his fever and the sultry weather—went 
out during the night, for the sake of air. . . . The 
oppasser heard him . . . and was rather sur¬ 

prised, for it was raining in torrents. . . . But 
it was not the first time that the kandjeng had gone 
out into the jungle at night, because of his sleepless¬ 
ness. . . . He missed his way; and the river was 
swollen. . > . It was impossible for him to swim, 
among the great rocks. . . . He was drowned 

in the stormy night. . . . His body was found 

by natives some distance below the pasangrahan, 
while Mrs. Dercksz, on waking in the morning, was 
very uneasy at not finding her husband in his 
room. . .. 

* 


* * 

Harold Dercksz sat and stared. 

In his silent, gloomy business-man’s study, he saw 
the Thing pass, but with such a trailing movement 
and so slowly. . . . And he did not notice the 

door open and his daughter Ina enter* 


98 


THINGS THAT PASS 


‘‘Father ...” 

He did not answer. 

“Father! Father . . 

He started. 

“ I have come to say good-night. i., . What 
were you thinking of so hard, Father? ” 

Harold Dercksz drew his hand over his fore¬ 
head : 

“ Nothing, dear . . . things . . . old 

things. ...” 

He saw them: there they went, trailing long 
spectral veils over rustling leaves . . . and . . . 
and was anything threatening behind the trees in 
that endless path? . . . 

“Old things? . . . Oh, Father, they are past 
by now! ... I never think of old things: the 
life of to-day is difficult enough for people without 
money. . . .” 

She kissed him good-night. . . . 

No, the old things ... are not yet the things 
of the past. . . . They are passing, they are 

passing . . . but so slowly! 


I 


CHAPTER VIII 

Lot Pauws was sitting in his room, writing, when 
he heard the voices of his mother and of her 
husband, Steyn, below. Mamma Ottilie’s voice 
sounded shrill, in steadily rising anger; and Steyn’s 
calm, indifferent bass voice boomed with short, jerky 
sentences and egged on Mamma’s words till she 
stuttered them out and almost choked in the panting 
effort. 

Lot put down his pen with a sigh and went down¬ 
stairs. He saw the old servant-maid listening 
eagerly at the kitchen-door, but she disappeared 
when she heard Lot’s footstep on the stair. 

Lot entered the room: 

“What’s the matter?” 

“What’s the matter? What’s the matter? I’ll 
tell you what’s the matter: I was a fool when I 
married, I was a fool to bring my property into 
settlement. If I hadn’t, I could have done as I 
pleased! Aren’t they my children, my own children? 
If they want money, can’t I send it to them? Must 
they starve, while he . . . while he 

She pointed to Steyn. 

“Well, what?” said Steyn, challenging her. 

“ While he blews my money on women, his ever¬ 
lasting, low women . . .” 


99 


100 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


“ I say, Mamma! ” 

“ Well, it’s true! ” 

“ Hush, Mamma, for shame: don’t talk like that! 
What’s it all about, Steyn?” 

‘‘ Mamma has had a letter from London.” 

“ From the Trevelleys? ” 

‘‘ From Hugh. He asks for money.” 

“ And can’t I send my son money if I want to? ” 
cried Mamma to Lot. “ Isn’t Hugh my child, isn’t 
he my son? It’s bad enough of you to object to. 
my seeing much of them, but am I to break with 
them altogether? If Hugh is without an appoint¬ 
ment for the moment, can’t I send him some money? 
Isn’t it my money ? Steyn has his money, his pension. 

I don’t ask him for his money! ” 

“ Look here. Lot,” said Steyn. “ Mamma can do 
as she likes, of course. But there is hardly enough 
as you know, for our regular expenses. If Mamma 
goes and sends Hugh fifty pounds, I don’t know how 
we shall manage. That’s all; and for the rest I 
don’t care what Mamma says.” 

“ You blew my money on low women, for you’re 
low yourself and always have been 1 ” 

“ Mamma, stop that I And be quiet. I can’t 
stand quarrelling and scolding. Be quiet. Be quiet. 
Mamma. Let me see Hugh’s letter.” 

“No, I sha’n’t let you see it either! What do 
you imagine? I’m not accountable to my son! 
Are you also siding with that brute against your 
mother? You’d both of you like me to break with 


lOI 


THINGS THAT PASS 

my own children, my own flesh and blood, my 
darlings, my d-dar-lin^s, because it suits your book! 
When do I see them? When? Tell me, when? 
Mary, John, Hugh: when do I see Hugh? Suppose 
I was mistaken in their father, aren’t they my own 
children, just as much as you and Ottilie? I can’t 
let my boy starve I ” 

“ I know quite well that Hugh abuses your kind-* 
ness, your weakness . . , not to speak of the two 
others.” 

‘‘That’s right, don’t you speak of them! Just 
break with your brothers and sisters! Just think 
that there’s nobody in the world but yourself and 
that your mother has no one but you; and go and 
get married and leave your mother alone with that 
fellow, that low fellow, who sneaks out at night to 
his women! Because he’s still young! Because he’s 
so young and his wife is old! But, if he has to go 
to his women and if you get married, I promise you 
I won’t stay in the house alone and I swear I’ll go 
to Hugh. My own dear boy, my d-darding: when 
do I see him? When do I see him? I haven’t seen 
him for a year! ” 

“ Please, Mamma, keep calm and don’t scream so. 
Talk quietly. You make me so dreadfully tired with 
that screaming and quarrelling and scolding: I can’t 
stand it ... I won’t ask you to show me Hugh’s 
letter. But Steyn is right; and, from what I know 
of our present financial position, it would be folly 
to send six hundred guilders to Hugh, who never has 


102 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

more than some vague ‘ appointment ’ In the City. 
You can’t do It.” 

“Yes, I can, selfish brute that you are I What 
do you know about your mother’s money? I always 
have money when I want it! ” 

“Yes, I know: you lose it and then you find It 
again In your cupboard. . . . ” 

“ And, though I don’t find it In my cupboard this 
time and If Steyn keeps the money locked up, 1 
shall just go to the bank and ask for it and they 
won’t refuse me. And I’ll have it sent by the bank. 
There, you see, I can do It, grasping, selfish brutes 
that you both are! I’ll put on my hat and go. 
I’ll go at once. I’ll go to the bank; and Hugh . . .; 
Hugh shall have his money to-morrow or next day, 
any day. I should do it for you. Lot, or for Ottilie; 
and I shall do it for Hugh. I am his mother and I 
shall do It: I shall, I shall, so there!** 

She stammered and choked with rage; and a prick 
of jealousy, because Lot had defended Steyn and 
because Steyn cared more for Lot than for her, drove 
into the flesh of her heart and caused her such suffer¬ 
ing that she no longer knew what she was saying 
and felt like boxing Lot’s ears and felt that . . . 

that she could have murdered Steyn! And she 
flounced out of the room, pale with passion, knock¬ 
ing against the furniture, slamming the door, and 
rushed upstairs. She could have sobbed with that 
pricking pain. . . . Steyn and Lot heard her 

moving and stamping overhead, putting on her things 


THINGS THAT PASS 103 

and talking to herself and scolding, scolding, 
scolding. 

Steyn’s hard features, rough but handsome under 
his beard, were suddenly twisted to softness by a 
spasm of despair. 

“ Lot, my dear fellow,” he said, “ Tve stood this 
for nearly twenty years.” 

“ Now then, Steyn! ” 

“ For nearly twenty years. Screaming, scolding, 
wrangling. . . . She’s your mother. We won’t 

say any more about it.” 

“ Steyn, she’s my mother and I’m fond of her, 
in spite of everything; but you know I feel how you 
must suffer.” 

“ Suffer? I don’t know. A chap gets dulled. But 
I do think sometimes that I’ve thrown away my life 
in a most wretched way. And who’s benefited by it? 
Not even sheJ* 

“ Try to look upon her as a child, as a temper- 
some, spoilt child. Be nice to her, once in a way. 
A kind word, a caress: that’s what she needs. She’s 
a woman who lives on petting. Poor Mamma: I 
know nobody who needs it as she does. She leans 
up against me sometimes, while I stroke her. Then 
she’s happy. If I give her a kiss, she’s happy. If I 
tell her she’s got a soft skin, she’s happy. She is a 
child. Try to look upon her as that; and be nice 
to her, just once or twice.” 

“ I can’t, any longer. I was mad on her, madly 
in love with her, at one time. If she hadn’t always 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


104 

quarrelled and been so impossibly unreasonable, we 
could still be living together amicably. Though she 
Is older than I, we could still have got on. But she’s, 
impossible. You see It as well as I do. There’s no 
money; and, because she doesn’t discover any in her 
cupboard this time, she simply goes and draws It 
from the bank to send to Hugh. It’s those letters 
from the Trevelleys which cause scenes at regular 
intervals. They bleed her In turns; and the shab¬ 
biest part of It, you know, is that the father’s at the 
back of It.” 

“Is that quite certain?” 

“ Yes. Trevelley’s always at the back of It. He 
Influences those children. We are getting into debt 
for Trevelley’s sake. . . . Lot, I’ve often thought 
of getting a divorce. I wouldn’t do it, because 
Mamma has been twice divorced already. But I 
sometimes ask myself, am I not throwing away my 
life for nothing? What good am I to her or she 
to me? We are staying together for nothing, for 
things that are past, for a passion that is past: one 
moment of mad. Insensate blindness, of not knowing 
or caring, of just wanting. . . .For things that 

are past I have been throwing away my life, day 
after day, for twenty years on end. I am a simple 
enough chap, but I used to enjoy my life, I enjoyed 
the service . . . and I have taken a dislike to 

everything and go on wasting my life day after day 
. . . For something that is quite past I . . . ” 

“ Steyn, you know I appreciate what you do. And 


THINGS THAT PASS 105 

you’re doing it purely for Mamma’s sake. But, you 
know, I have often said to you, go your own way. 
Barren sacrifices make no appeal to me. If you 
think you will still find something in life by leaving 
Mamma, then do so.” 

But' Steyn seemed to have recovered his indiffer¬ 
ence : 

“ No, my boy, what’s spoilt is spoilt. Twenty 
years wear out a man’s energy to make something 
more of his life. I felt at the time that I oughn’t 
to desert Mamma, when she was left all alone, not 
wholly through my fault, perhaps, but still very 
much so. To leave her now, when she is an old 
woman, would be the act of a cad; I can’t do it. 
I take that line not as a barren sacrifice, but because 
I can’t help it. I don’t allow my life to be made a 
hell of. I go my own way when I want to, though 
Mamma exaggerates when she pretends that I go 
to a woman at night.” 

“ Mamma is naturally jealous and she’s still 
jealous of you.” 

“ And she’s jealous of you. She’s an unhappy 
woman; and the older she grows the unhappier she 
will be. She’s one of those people who ought never 
to grow old. . . . Come along. Jack, we’re going 
for a walk. . . . But, Lot, if Mamma goes on 
like this, we shall have to have her property admin¬ 
istered for her. There’s nothing else for it.” 

Lot gave a start; he pictured Mamma with her 
property transferred to an administrator; and yet 


io6 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

Steyn was right. He thought that he had better have 
a quiet talk with Mamma. For the moment, there 
was nothing to be done: Mamma was exasperated, 
was behaving like a lunatic and would send Hugh 
the fifty pounds. 

Lot went back to his room and tried to resume 
his work. He was writing an essay On Art, proving 
that art was entertainment and the artist an enter¬ 
tainer. He did not know whether he agreed with 
everything that he was saying, but that didn’t matter 
and was of no importance. It was a subject to fill 
a few brilliant pages, written with all his talent for 
words; and it would catch the public, it would be 
read: it would rouse indignation on the one side and 
a smile on the other, because there really might be 
a good deal in it and because Charles Pauws might 
be right in what he said. He lovingly fashioned his 
sentences out of beautiful words, making them seem 
convincing through their brilliancy. . . . But in 

between the sentences he thought of poor Mamma 
and suddenly found that he could not go on wri¬ 
ting. He pitied her. He felt for Steyn, but he pitied 
poor Mamma. . . . He rose and paced his room, 
which was full of spoils of Italy: a few bronzes, a 
number of photographs after the Italian masters. 
A good fellow, Steyn, to let him have this room 
next to Mamma’s and to go up to the top floor him¬ 
self. But he pitied his mother, who was such a child. 
She had always been a child: she could not help 
being and remaining a child. She had been so very 


THINGS THAT PASS 


107 

pretty and so seductive: a little doll always; and 
he remembered, when he was already a boy of seven¬ 
teen, how perfectly charming Mamma used to look: 
so young, so extraordinarily young, with that ador¬ 
able little face, those blue childlike eyes and that per¬ 
fect, plump figure. She was thirty-eight then, without 
a sign of age; she was a pretty woman In the full 
bloom of her attractiveness. He had no need to 
look at Mamma’s photographs as she was In those 
days and earlier: he remembered her like that; he 
remembered her looking like a young girl In a low, 
creamy-white lace dress, which she did not even take 
the trouble to put on very neatly, looking above 
all things charming, so Intensely charming; he re¬ 
membered her In a brown-cloth frock trimmed with 
astrakhan, with a little astrakhan cap on her frizzy 
hair, skating with him on the Ice, so lightly and 
gracefully that people believed her to be his sister. 
. . . Poor Mamma, growing old now! And yet 

she still looked very nice, but she was growing old; 
and she had nothing—he was sure of this—she had 
nothing but her faculty for love. She had five child¬ 
ren, but she was not a mother: Lot laughed and 
shook his head at the thought. He had educated 
himself; Ottllle had very early become aware of her 
great talent and her beautiful voice and had also 
educated herself; the Trevelleys had run more wild. 

. . . No, Mamma was not a mother, was not a 

woman of domestic tastes, was not even a woman 
of the world: Mamma had nothing but her faculty 


io8 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

for love. She needed love, probably no longer 
needed passion, but still needed love; and what she 
needed most, needed mortally, was petting, like a 
child. And nobody petted her more than he did, 
because he knew that Mamma was mad on petting. 
She had once said to him, pointing to a photograph 
of his half-brother Hugh Trevelley, a good-looking 
lad turned twenty: 

“ Lot, it’s eight months since I had a kiss from 
him! ” 

And he had seen something in Mamma as though 
she were craving for Hugh’s kiss, though he some¬ 
times treated her so roughly and cavalierly. Of 
course, this was also a motherly feeling on Mam¬ 
ma’s part, but it was perhaps even more a need 
to have this lad, who was her son, caress her, 
caress her sweetly. . . . And were they to put 

her under any kind of restraint? Perhaps it would 
have to come! It would be perfectly horrid: that 
dear Mummy! But she was so silly sometimes I So 
stupid! Such a child, for such an old woman! 
. . . Oh, it was terrible, that growing old and 

older and yet remaining what you were 1 How little 
life taught you I How little it formed you 1 It left 
you as you were and merely wore off your sharp and 
attractive irregularities 1 . . . Poor Mamma, her 
life was made up of nothing but things that were 
past . . . and especially things of love 1 . . 

Aunt Stefanie spoke of hysteria; and a great streak 
of sensual passion had run through the family; but it 


THINGS THAT PASS 109 

did not come from the Derckszes, as Aunt Stefanie 
pretended: it came from Grandmamma herself. He 
had always heard that, like his mother, she too had 
been a woman of passion. People talked of all sorts 
of adventures which she had had in India, until she 
met Takma. There was a kind of curse on their 
family, a curse of unhappy marriages. Both of 
Grandmamma’s marriages had turned out unhappily: 
General de Laders appeared to have been a brute, 
however much Aunt Stefanie might defend her 
father. With Grandpapa Dercksz, so people said. 
Grandmamma was exceedingly unhappy: the ad¬ 
ventures dated back to that time. Grandpapa 
Dercksz was drowned by falling at night into the 
swollen river behind a pasangrahan in the Tegal 
mountains. Lot remembered how that had always 
been talked about, how the rumours had persisted 
for years. The story, which dated sixty years back, 
ran that Grandpapa Dercksz had shown kindness to 
a woman in the kampong and that he was stabbed 
by a Javanese out of jealousy. It was mere gossip: 
Dr. Roelofsz said that it was mere gossip. . . . 

A curse of unhappy marriages. . . . Uncle Anton 
had never been married; but in him the streak of 
passion developed into a broad vein of hysteria. 

. . . Uncle Harold, human but inscrutable, had 

been unhappy with his freule, who was too Dutch 
for an Indian planter. . . . Uncle Daan, in India 
—they were on their way to Holland at this 
moment—was to outward appearances not unhappy 


110 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

with a far too Indian wife, Aunt Floor: they were 
now old and staid and sedate, but there was a time 
when the fatal streak had run through both of them, 
developing in Aunt—a Dillenhof, belonging to 
Grandmamma’s family—Into the vein, the broad 
vein. Well, that was all past: they were old people 
now. . . . Aunt Therese van der Staff had be¬ 

come a Catholic, after an unhappy marriage; they 
said that Theo, her son, was not the son of her 
husband. . . . And his own poor mother, thrice 

married and thrice unhappily! 

He had never looked at it like this before, through¬ 
out and down the generations, but, when he did, it 
was terrible: a sort of clinging to the social law— 
of marriage—which was suited to none of those tem¬ 
peraments. Why had they married? They were all 
old people now, but ... if they had been young 
now, with modern views, would they have married? 
Would they have married? Their blood, often 
heated to the point of hysteria, could never have 
endured that constraint. They had found the 
momentary counterparts of their passion, for not 
one of them—with the exception perhaps of Uncle 
Harold—had married for other than passionate 
reasons; but, as soon as the constraint of marriage 
oppressed them, they had felt their fate, the social 
law which they had always honoured, thoughtlessly 
and instinctively, and which did not suit them; they 
had felt their family curse of being married and 
unhappy. . . . And he himself, why was he get- 


Ill 


THINGS THAT PASS 

ting married? He suddenly asked himself the 
question, seriously, as he had once asked his mother 
in jest. Why was he getting married? Was he a 
man for marriage ? Did he not know himself only 
too well? Cynical towards himself, he saw himself 
as he was and was fully aware of his own egotism. 
He knew all his little vanities, of personal appear¬ 
ance, of a fine literary style. . . . He smiled: he 
was not a bad sort, there were worse than he; but, 
in Heaven’s name, why was he getting married? 
Why had he proposed to Elly? . . . And yet he 
felt happy; and, now that he was seriously asking 
himself why he was getting married, he felt very 
seriously that he was fond of Elly, perhaps fonder 
than he himself knew. But—the thought was irre¬ 
pressible—why get married? Would he escape the 
family curse? Wasn’t Ottilie at Nice really right, 
Ottilie who refused to marry and who lived unbound 
with her Italian officer—she herself had written to 
tell him so—until they should cease to love each 
other? Was the streak continued in her or . . . 

was she right and he wrong? Was she, his sister, 
a woman, stronger in her views of life than he, a 
man? . . . Why, why get married? Couldn’t 

he say to Elly, who was so sensible, that he pre¬ 
ferred to live unbound with her? . . c- No, it 

was not feasible: there remained, however little 
it might count with them, the question of social con¬ 
sideration; there was her grandfather; there were 
people and things, conventions, difficulties. No, he 


II2 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

could not put it to Elly; and yet she would have 
understood it all right. ... So there was nothing 
for it but to get married in the ordinary way and to 
hope—because they loved each other so thoroughly 
and not only out of passion—that the curse would 
not force its fate upon them, the yoke of an unhappy 
marriage. . . . 

Those people, those uncles and aunts, had been 
unhappy, in their marriages. They were now grow¬ 
ing old; those things of other days were now all 
passing. . . . They were passing. . . . Would 
they come to him, who was still young? Must 
they come around him, now that he was growing 
older? Oh, to grow older, to grow old! Oh, 
the terrible nightmare of growing old, of seeing 
the wintry-grey vistas opening before him! To be 
humbled in his conceit with his appearance did not 
mean so very much; to be humbled in his conceit 
with his literary gifts hurt more; but to be humbled 
in his whole physical and moral existence: that was 
the horror, the nightmare! Not humbled all at 
once, but slowly undergoing the decay of his young 
and vigorous body, the withering of his intelligence 
and his soul. . . . Oh, to grow as old as 
Grandmamma and as Grandpapa Takma: how 
awful! And those were people who had lived for 
their ninety years and more. An atom of emotion 
still seemed to be wafted between the two of them, 
an atom of memory. Who could tell? Perhaps 
they still talked . . . about the past. . . . But 


THINGS THAT PASS 


113 

to grow so old as that: ninety-seven! Oh, no, no, 
not so old as that: let him die before he decayed, 
before he withered! He felt himself turn cold with 
dread at the thought and he trembled, now that he 
realized so powerfully the possibility of growing 
as old as that: ninety-seven! . . . O God, O 

God, no, no! . . . Let him die young, let it be 

over, in his case, while he was still young! He was 
no pessimist, he loved life: life was beautiful, life 
was radiant; there were so many beautiful things in 
art, in Italy, in his own intellect: in his own soul 
even, at present, that emotion for Elly. But he loved 
young and vigorous life and did not want decay and 
withering. Oh, for vigour, vigour always, youth 
always! To die young, to die young! He implored 
it of That which he accepted as God, that Light, that 
Secret, which perhaps, however, would not listen 
from out of Its unfathomable depths of might to a 
prayer from him, so small, so selfish, so unmanly, 
so cowardly, so vain, so incredibly vain! Oh, did 
he not know himself? Did he pretend not to see 
himself as he was? Could he help seeing himself 
as he was? 

He paced his room and did not hear the door 
open. 

“ And the fifty pounds is in the post! ” 

He started. His mother stood before him, looking 
like a little fury: her blue eyes blazed like those of 
a little demon and her mouth was wide open like 
a naughty child’s. 


114 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

“ Oh! . > . Mamma! 

“Lot! . . . What’s the matter with you?” 

“With me? . . . Nothing. ...” 

“ Oh, my boy, my boy, what’s the matter with 
you ? ” 

He was shivering as in a fever. He was quite 
pale. He tried to master himself, to be manly, 
plucky and brave. A dark terror overwhelmed him. 
Everything went black before his eyes. 

“ My dear, my dear . . . what is it? ” 

She had thrown her arm round him and now drew 
him to the sofa. 

“ Oh, Mamma! . . . To grow old! To grow 
old! ” 

“ Hush, darling, be still! ” 

She stroked his head as it lay on her shoulder. 
She knew him like that: it was his disease, his weak¬ 
ness ; it returned periodically and he would lie 
against her thus, moaning at the thought of growing 
old, of growing old. . . . Ah, well, it was his 

disease, his weakness; she knew all about it; and 
she became very calm, as she would have done if 
he had been feverish. She fondled him, stroked his 
hair with regular strokes, trying not to disorder it. 
She kissed him repeatedly. She felt a glow of con¬ 
tent because she was petting him; her motherly atti¬ 
tude was bound to calm him. 

“ Hush, darling, be still! ” 

He did keep still for a moment. 

“ Do you really think it so terrible ... to 


THINGS THAT PASS 115 

grow old . . . perhaps . . . later on? ” asked 
Ottilie, melancholy in spite of herself. 

“Yes. ...” 

“ I didn’t think it pleasant either. But you . . . 
you are so young still! ” 

He was already regaining his self-control and 
feeling ashamed of himself. He was a child, like 
his mother, an ailing, feeble, hysterical child at 
times. That was his hysteria, that dread of old 
age. And he was looking for consolation to his 
mother, who was not a mother! . . . 

No, he regained his self-control, was ashamed of 
himself: 

“ Oh, yes . . . I’m young still! ” he made an 
effort to say, indifferently. 

“And you’re going to be married: your life is 
only just beginning . . .” 

“ Because I’m getting married? ” 

“ Yes, because you’re getting married. If only 
you are happy, dear, and not . . . not as your 

mother . . .” 

He gave a little start, but smiled. He regained 
his self-control now and at the same time regained 
his control over his mother, to whom he had looked 
for a moment for consolation and who had always 
petted him. And he fondled her in his turn and 
gave her a fervent kiss: 

“ Poor little creatures that we are! ” he said. 
“We sometimes act and think so strangely! We 
are very ill and very old . , , even though we 


ii6 THINGS THAT PASS 

are still young. . . . Mamma, I must have a 

serious talk with you some day . . . serious^ you 

know. Not now, another time: I must get on now 
with my work. Leave me to myself now and be 
calm . . . and good. Really, I’m all right again. 
. . . And don’t you go on behaving like a little 

fury! ” 

She laughed inwardly, with mischievous delight: 

“ I’ve sent off the fifty pounds for all that! ” she 
said, from behind the open door. 

And she was gone. 

He shook his head: 

“ I am sorry for her! ” he thought, analysing his 
emotions. “And . . . for myself! Even more 

for myself. We poor, poor creatures! We ought 
all to be placed under restraint . . . but whose? 

Come, the best thing is to get to work and to keep 
working, strenuously, always. . . 


CHAPTER IX 


Old Takma was just coming from the razor-back 
bridge by the barracks, stiff and erect in his tightly- 
buttoned overcoat, considering each step and leaning 
on his ivory-knobbed stick, when Ottilie Steyn de 
Weert, arriving from the other side, saw him and 
went up to him: 

“How do you do, Mr. Takma?” 

“Ah, Ottilie, how do you do? . • • Are you 
going to Mamma’s too?” 

“Yes. ...” 

“ It was raining this morning and I thought I 
shouldn’t be able to go. Adele was grumbling be¬ 
cause I went out after all, but it’s fine now, it’s fine 
now. . . . ” 

“ I think it’ll rain again presently though, and 
you haven’t even an umbrella, Mr. Takma.” 

“ Well, you see, child, I hate an umbrella: I never 
carry one. . . . Fancy walking with a roof over 

your head! ” 

Ottilie smiled: she knew that the old man could 
not lean on his stick when holding up his umbrella. 
But she said: 

“ Well, if it rains, may I see you home? . . .• 
That is, if you won’t have a carriage? ” 


ii8 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

“ No, child, I think a carriage even more horrid 
than an umbrella.” 

She knew that the jolting of a cab caused him 
great discomfort. 

“ The only carriage in which Pm likely to drive 
will be the black coach. Very well, child, if it rains, 
you shall bring me home . . . and hold your 

little roof over my head. Give me your arm: Pll 
accept that with pleasure.” 

She gave him her arm; and, now that he was 
leaning on her, his stiff, straight step became irregular 
and he let himself go and hobbled along like a very 
old, old man. . . . 

“ How quiet you are, child! ” 

“I, Mr. Takma?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ You notice everything.” 

“ I could hear at once by your voice that you were 
not in good spirits.” 

“ Well, perhaps I am worried. . . . Here we 
are. 

She rang at old Mrs. Dercksz’: old Anna, inside, 
came hurrying at a great rate to open the door. 

“ ril just take breath, Anna,” said the old gentle¬ 
man, “ just take breath . . . keep on my coat, 

I think . . . and take breath for a moment . . . 
in the morning-room.” 

“ It’s getting coldish,” said old Anna. “ We shall 
start fires soon in the morning-room. The mistress 
never comes downstairs, but there’s often some one 


THINGS THAT PASS 119 

waiting; and Dr. Roelofsz is a very chilly gentle¬ 
man. ...” 

“ Don’t start fires too soon, don’t start fires too 
soon,” said the old man, querulously. “ Fires play 
the dickens with us old people. . . .” 

He sat down, wearily, in the morning-room, with 
his two hands on the ivory knob of his stick. Anna 
left them to themselves. 

“ Come, child, what is it? Worry?” 

“ A little. ... I shall be so lonely. . . . 

The wedding’s to-morrow.” 

‘‘ Yes, yes . . . to-morrow is Lot and Elly’s 

wedding. Well, they’ll be very happy.” 

“ I hope so, I’m sure. . . . But I . . .” 

“Well?” 

“ I shall be wwhappy.” 

“ Come, come! ” 

“What have I left? Not one of my children 
with me. I sometimes think of going to England. 
I have John and Hugh there . . . and Mary is 
coming home from India.” 

“ Yes, child, as we grow older, we are left all 
alone. Look at me. Now that Elly is marrying, I 
shall have no one but Adele. It’s lucky that I can 
still get out . . . and that I sometimes see 
Mamma . . . and . . . and all of you . . . 
and Dr. Roelofsz. . . . But, if I were helpless, 

what would there be for me? . . . You, you’re 

young still.” 

“I? Do you call young? .. . 


120 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


“ Yes, child, aren’t you young? . . 

“ But, Mr. Takma, Fm sixty! ” 

“ Are you sixty ? . . . Ayq you sixty f . . . 

Child, do you mean to tell me you’re sixty?” 

The old man cudgelled his brains, fighting against 
a sudden cloud in his memory that hazed around 
him like a mist. And he continued: 

“ No, you must be mistaken. You can^t be sixty.” 

“ Yes, really, Mr. Takma, really; Fm sixty I ” 

“ Oh, Lietje, my child, are you really ... as 
old ... as that! ” 

He cudgelled his brains . . . and closed his 

eyes: 

“ Sixty!” he muttered. “ More than sixty . . . 
more than sixty years . . .” 

“ No, sixty exactly.” 

“ Yes, yes, sixty! Oh, child, are you really sixty? 
I thought you were forty or fifty at most ... I 
was dreaming. . . . The old man was dreaming 

. . . Sixty! . . . More than sixty years 

ago! . . .” 

His voice mumbled; she did not understand what 
he meant: 

“ Were you a little confused? ” 

“ When? ” he asked, with a start. 

“ Just now.” 

“Just now? . . .” 

“ When you thought . . . that I was forty.” 

“What do you say?” 

“ When you thought that I was forty 


THINGS THAT PASS 


I2I 


“ Yes, yes . . . I hear what you say. 

I can still hear very well. . . I have always 

heard very well . . . too well . > « too 

well . . . ” 

“ He’s wandering,” thought Ottilie Steyn. He’s 
never done that before.” 

“ So you’re sixty, child! ” said the old man, more 
calmly, recovering his voice. “ Yes, I suppose you 
must be. . . . You see, we old people, we very 

old people, think that you others always remain 
children . . . well, not children, but young . . . 
that you always remain young, m • Ah . . . 

and you grow old too I ” 

“Oh, yes, very old! And then there’s so little 
left.” 

Her voice sounded ever so sad. 

“Poor girl!” said old Takma. “But you 
oughtn’t to quarrel so with Pauws . . . I mean 

;. . . I mean, with Trevelley.” 

“ With Steyn, you mean.” 

“ Yes, I mean, with Steyn ... of course.” 

“ I can’t stand him.” 

“ But you could, once! ” 

“ Ah . . . when one’s in love . . . 

then ... !” 

“ Yes, yes, you were able to stand him at one 
time! ” said the old man, obstinately. “ And so the 
wedding is to-morrow? ” 

“ Yes, to-morrow.” 

“ I can’t be there: I’m very sorry, but . 


122 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


“ Yes, it would tire you too much. . . . They’re 
coming to take leave of Grandmamma presently.” 

“ That’s nice, that’s nice of them.” 

“ It’ll be a tame affair,” said Ottilie. “ They are 
so tame. There’ll be nothing, no festivity. They 
refuse to be married in church.” 

“ Yes, those are their ideas,” said the old man, 
in a tone of indifference. “ I don’t understand it, 
that ‘not being married in church;’ but they must 
know their own business.” 

“Elly hasn’t even a bridal dress; I think it so 
odd. . . . Elly is really very serious for so young 
a girl. I shouldn’t care to be married like that, when 
you’re married for the first time. But, on the other 
hand, what’s the use of all that fuss, as Lot says? 
The relations and friends don’t really care. And it 
runs into money.” 

“ Elly could have had whatever she liked,” said 
the old gentleman, “ a dinner, a dance or anything 
. . . But she refused.” 

“ Yes, they’re both agreed.” 

“ Those are their ideas,” said the old man, 
with indifference. 

“Mr. Takma . . .” said Ottilie, hesitatingly. 

“ Yes, child?” 

“ I wanted to ask you something, but I dare 
not. ...” 

“What are you afraid of, child? Do you want 
something? ” 

“ No, not exactly, but ...” 


THINGS THAT PASS 


123 


“ But what, child? . . Is it money?” 

Ottilie heaved a great sob: 

“ I hate asking you I ... I think it’s horrid 
of me. . . . And you mustn’t ever tell Lot that 

I ask you sometimes. . . . But, you see, I’ll tell 

you frankly. I’ve sent Hugh some money; and now 
. . . and now I hava nothing left for myself. 

. . If you hadn’t always been so immensely 

kind to me, I should never dare ask you. But you’ve 
always spoilt me, as you know. . . .Yes, you 

know: you’ve always had a soft place in your heart 
for me. . . . And, if you don’t think it horrid 

of me to ask you and if you could .; .. • let me 
have . . .” 

“ How much do you want, child? ” 

Ottilie looked at the door, to see if any one was 
listening: 

“Only three hundred guilders. . . .” 

“ Why, of course, child, of course. Come round 
to-morrow, to-morrow evening . . . after the 

wedding. . . . And, when you want anything, ask 
me, do you see? Ask me with an easy conscience. 
. . . You can ask me whenever you please. . . .” 

“ You so good to me! . . .” 

“ I have always been very fond of you . . . 

because I’m so very fond of your mother. . . . 

So ask me, child . . . ask me whenever you 

please, only . .. be sensible . . . and don’t 

do . . .” 

“ Don’t do what, Mr. Takma? ” 



124 THINGS THAT PASS 

The old man suddenly became very uncertain in 
his speech: 

“Don’t do . . . don’t do anything rash. . . 

“ What do you mean? . . 

“ Sixty years . . . sixty years ago . . . ” 

He began to mumble; and she saw him fall asleep, 
sitting erect, with his hands on the ivory knob of 
his stick. 

She was frightened and, stealing noiselessly to 
the door, she opened it and called: 

“Anna . . . Anna. ...” 

“Yes, ma’am?” 

“ Come here. . . . Look. . . . Mr. Takma 
has fallen asleep. . . .We’d better stay with 

him till he wakes up, hadn’t we? ” 

“ Oh, the poor soul! ” said the maid, compassion¬ 
ately. 

“ He isn’t . . . ? ” asked Ottilic, in the voice 
of a frightened child. 

But Anna shook her head reassuringly. The old 
man slept on, stiff and straight in his chair, with 
his hands resting on his stick. 

The two women sat down and watched. 


CHAPTER X 


There was a ring; and Ottilie whispered: 

“ Do you think that’s Mr. Lot and Miss 
Elly? . . 

“ No,” said Anna, looking out of the window, 
“ it’s Mr. Harold.” 

And she went to the front-door. Ottilie came out 
to her brother in the passage. 

“How are you, Ottilie?” said Harold Dercksz. 
“Is there no one with Mamma?” 

“ No. I met Mr. Takma just outside the door. 
Look, he’s fallen asleep. I’m waiting here till he 
wakes.” 

“ Then I’ll go up to Mamma meanwhile.” 

“ You’re looking poorly, Harold.” 

“Yes. I do not feel well. I’m in pain . . .” 

“Where?” 

“ Everywhere. Heart, liver: everything’s wrong. 
. . . So to-morrow is the great day, Ottilie?” 

“ Yes,” said Ottilie, mournfully, “ to-morrow. 
. . . They’re so unenterprising. No reception 

and no religious marriage.” 

“ Lot asked me to be one of his witnesses.” 

“ Yes, you and Steyn, with Dr. Roelofsz and 
D’Herbourg for Elly. . . . Anton declined. . . .” 
“ Yes, Anton doesn’t care for that sort of thing.” 


125 


126 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

He went upstairs slowly, knocked, opened the 
door. The companion was sitting with the old 
woman and reading something out of the paper in 
a monotonous voice. She rose from her chair: 

“ Here’s Mr. Harold, mevrouw.” 

She left the room; and the son bent over his 
mother and gave her a very gentle kiss on the fore¬ 
head. As it was dark, the lined porcelain of the 
old woman’s face was hardly indicated in the crim¬ 
son twilight of the curtains and the tall valance. 
She sat on the chair, in the cashmere folds of her 
wide dress, straight upright, as on a throne; and 
in her lap the frail fingers trembled like slender 
wands in the black mittens. A few words were ex¬ 
changed between mother and son, he sitting on a 
chair beside her, for no one ever took the chair 
by the window, which was kept exclusively for Mr. 
Takma: words about health and weather and the 
wedding of Elly and Lot next day. Sometimes a 
look of pain came over Harold’s parchment-coloured 
face; and his mouth was drawn as though with 
cramp. And, while he talked about Lot and about 
health and weather, he saw—as he always saw, when 
sitting here beside or opposite Mamma—the things 
that passed and dragged their ghostly veils over the 
path rustling with dead leaves: the things that passed 
so slowly, years and years to every yard, until it 
seemed as though they never would be past and as 
though he would always continue to see them, ever 
drawing out their pageant along the age-long path. 


THINGS THAT PASS 127 

While he talked about health and weather and Lot, 
he saw—as he always saw, when sitting beside or 
opposite Mamma—the one thing, the one terrible 
Thing, the Thing begotten in that night of clatter¬ 
ing rain in the lonely pasangrahan at Tegal; and 
he heard the hushed voices: Baboe’s whispering 
voice; Takma’s nervous-angry voice of terror; his 
mother’s voice of sobbing despair; himself a mere 
child of thirteen. He knew; he had seen, he had 
heard. He was the only one who had heard, who 
had seen. All his life long—and he was an old, 
sick man now—he had seen the Thing slowly pass¬ 
ing like that; and the others had heard nothing, seen 
nothing, known nothing. . . . Had they really 

not known, not seen, not heard? He often asked 
himself the question. Roelofsz must surely have 
seen the wound. And Roelofsz had never mentioned 
a wound; on the contrary, he had denied it. . . . 
Rumours had gone about, vague rumours, of a 
woman in the kampong, of a stab with a kris, of 
a trail of blood: how many rumours were there not 
going about! His father was drowned in the river, 
one sultry night, when he had gone into the garden 
for air and been caught in the pelting rain. . . . 

The Thing, the terrible Thing was passing, was a 
step farther, looked round at him with staring eyes. 
Why did they all live to be so old and why did the 
Thing pass so slowly? . . . He knew: he had 

known more . . . because of rumours which he 

had heard; because of what he had guessed instinct- 


128 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

ively in later years, when he was no longer a child: 
his father hearing a sound ... a sound of voices 
in his wife’s room. . . . Takma’s voice, the inti¬ 
mate friend of the house. . . . His suspicions: 

was he right? Was it Takma? Yes, it was Takma. 

. . . Takma in his wife’s room. . . . His rage, 
his jealousy; his eyes that saw red; his hand seeking 
for a weapon. . . . No weapon but the kris, the 

handsome ornamental kris, a present which Papa 
received only yesterday from the Regent. . . . 

He steals to his wife’s room. . . . There . . . 
there ... he hears their voices. . . . They 

are laughing, they are laughing under their breath. 

. . . He flings himself against the door; the bam¬ 
boo bolt gives way; he rushes in. . . . Two men 

face to face because of a woman. . . . Their con¬ 
test, their passion, as in primeval days. . . . 

Takma has snatched the kris from Harold’s father. 

. . . No longer human beings, no longer men, but 
male animals fighting over a female. . . . No 

other thoughts in their red brains and before their 
red gaze but their passion and their jealousy and 
their wrath. . . . His father mortally wounded I 

. . . But Harold Dercksz does not see his mother 
in all this: he does not see her, he does not know 
how she behaves, how she behaved during the strug¬ 
gle between these two animal men. . . . He does 
not see how the female behaved: that never rose up 
before his intuition, however often he may have 
stared after the Thing that passed, however often, 


THINGS THAT PASS 


129 

for years and years, again and again he may have 
sat beside his mother, talking about health .and 
weather. And to-day it is much stronger than his 
whole being; and he asks the very old woman: 

“Was your companion reading the paper to 
you?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Does she read nicely? ” 

“ Yes. She sometimes finds it difficult to know 
what to choose.” 

“ Politics don’t interest you? ” 

“ The war does: it’s terrible, all that loss of human 
life.” 

“It’s murder . . . on a large scale. . . .” 

“Yes, it’s murder. ...” 

“Does she read you the serial story?” 

“No, no; I don’t care for serials.” 

“ No more do I.” 

“ We are too old for that.” 

“ Yes, we old people have our own serial 
stories. ...” 

“Yes. . . . A quiet life’s the best. . >: 

“ Then you have nothing to reproach yourself 
with. . . .” 

He sees the slender, wand-like fingers tremble. 
Has she anything to reproach herself with, more 
than her infidelity to the man who was her husband? 
He has never seen it for himself; and yet the Thing 
has always and always dragged its ghostly veils 
rustling over dead leaves. . . 


130 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

“Hasn’t she been reading about that murder?” 

“What murder?” 

“ In England, the woman who . . 

“ No, no, she never reads me that sort of 
thing. . . .” 

Her words are almost an entreaty. . . . How 
old she is, how old she is! . . . The toothless 

mouth trembles and mumbles, the fingers shake vio¬ 
lently. He is full of pity, he, the son, who knows 
and who suspects what he does not know, because 
he knows the soul of that mother, her soul now 
dulled and blunted in waiting for the body’s death, 
but her soul also once a soul of passion, of temper, 
an amorous creole soul, capable at one moment of 
forgetting all the world and life itself for a single 
instant of rapture ... or perhaps of hate I He 
knows that she hated his father, after first adoring 
him; that she hated him because her own passion 
expired before him in a heap of ashes. . . . This 
had all been made clear to him, gradually, year after 
year, when he was no longer a child but grew into 
a man and was a man and understood and looked 
back and reflected and pieced together what he had 
understood and looked back upon. . . . He sus¬ 

pects, because he knows her soul. But how blunted 
that soul is now; and how old she is, how old she is! 
A pity softens his own soul, old, old, too, and full 
of melancholy for all the things of life gone by 
... for his mother . . . and for himself, an 

old man now. . . . How old she is, how old 


THINGS THAT PASS 


131 

she is! . . • Hush, oh, hush: let her grow just 

a little older; and then it will be over and the Thing 
will have passed! The last fold of its spectral veil 
will have vanished; the last leaf on that endless, 
endless path will have rustled; and, though once a 
rumour, vaguely, with a dismal moaning, hovered 
through those trees, it never grew into a voice and 
an accusation and, from among those trees, no one 
ever stepped forward with threatening hand that 
stayed the Thing, the sombre, ghostly Thing, drag¬ 
ging itself along its long road, for years and 
years and years. . . . 


CHAPTER XI 


The front-door bell made old Takma wake with a 
start. And he knew that he had been to sleep, but 
he did not allude to it and quietly acted as though 
he had only been sitting and resting, with his hands 
leaning on his ivory-knobbed stick. And, when Dr. 
Roelofsz entered, he said, with his unvarying little 
joke: 

“ Well, Roelofsz, you don’t get any thinner as 
the years go by! ” 

“ Well-well,” said the doctor, “ d’you think so, 
Takma?” 

He came rolling in, enormous of paunch, which 
hung dropsically and askew towards his one stiff 
leg, which was shorter than the other; and, in his 
old, clean-shaven, monkish face, his bleared little 
eyes glittered behind the gold spectacles and were 
angry because Takma was always referring to his 
paunch and he didn’t like it. 

“ Harold is upstairs,” said Ottilie Steyn. 

“ Come, child,” said Takma, rising with an effort, 
“we’d better go upstairs now; then we’ll drive 
Harold away. . . .” 

They went up slowly. But there was another ring 
at the front-door. 


132 


THINGS THAT PASS 133 

“ There’s such a bustle some days,” said old Anna 
to the doctor. “ But the mistress isn’t neglected in 
her old age! We shall soon have to start fires in 
the morning-room, for there’s often some one wait¬ 
ing here. . . .” 

“ Yes-yes-yes,” said the doctor, rubbing his short, 
fat, fleshy hands with a shiver. “ It’s coldish, it’s 
chilly, Anna. You may as well have a fire. . . .” 

“ Mr. Takma says fires are the dickens.” 

“ Yes, but he’s always blazing hot inside,” said 
Dr. Roelofsz, viciously. “ Well-well-well, here are 
the children. . . .” 

“ Can we go up? ” asked Elly, entering with Lot. 

“ Yes, go upstairs, miss,” said Anna. Mr. 
Harold is just coming down; and there’s no one- 
upstairs but Mamma . . . and Mr. Takma.” 

“ Grandmamma’s holding a court,” said Lot, 
jestingly. 

But his voice hesitated in joking, for a certain 
awe always oppressed him as soon as he entered his 
grandmother’s house. It was because of that atmo¬ 
sphere of the past into which he sometimes felt too 
hyperimaginative to intrude, an atmosphere from 
which bygone memories and things constantly came 
floating. The old doctor, who had something of a 
monk and something of a Silenus in his appearance, 
was so very old and, though younger than Grand¬ 
mamma, had known her as a young and seductive 
woman. . . . Here was Uncle Harold coming 

down the stairs: he was much younger, but a deep 


134 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

and mysterious melancholy furrowed his faded face, 
which moreover was wrung with physical pain. 

“ Till to-morrow, till to-morrow, children,*’ he 
said, gently, and went away after shaking hands with 
them. “ Till to-morrow, till to-morrow, Roe- 
lofsz. . . .” 

That voice, broken with melancholy, always made 
Lot shudder. He now followed Elly up the stairs, 
while the doctor remained below, talking to old 
Anna: 

“Yes-yes-yes, well-well-well I ” 

The ejaculations pursued Lot as he mounted the 
stairs. Each time that he came to the house he 
became more conscious of finding himself on another 
plane, more sensitive to that atmosphere of former 
days, which seemed to drag with it something that 
rustled. A whole past lay hidden behind the 
joviality of the voluble doctor. Oh, to grow old, 
to grow old! He shivered at the thought on 
that first autumnal day. . . . They now entered 

the room: there they sat. Grandmamma, Grandpapa 
Takma and, in between them, so strangely, like a 
child, Lot’s mother. And Lot, walking behind Elly, 
modulated his tread, his gestures, his voice; and Elly 
also was very careful, he thought, as though she 
feared to break that crystal, antique atmosphere 
with too great a display of youth. 

“ So you’re to be married to-morrow? That’s 
right, that’s right,” said the old woman, con¬ 
tentedly. 


THINGS THAT PASS 135 

She raised her two hands with an angular gesture 
and, with careful and trembling lips, kissed first Eliy 
and then Lot on the forehead. They were now all 
sitting in a circle; and a few words passed at inter¬ 
vals; and Lot felt as if he himself were a child, 
Elly quite a baby, his mother a young woman. She 
resembled Grandmamma, certainly; but what in 
Grandmamma had been an imposing creole beauty 
had been fined down in Mamma, had become the 
essence of fineness, was so still. Yes, she was like 
Grandmamma, but—it struck him again, as it had 
before—she had something, not a resemblance, but 
a similar gesture, with something about the eyes and 
something about the laugh, to Grandpapa Takma. 

. . . Could it be true after all, what people had 

whispered: that the youngest child, Ottilie, had been 
born too long after Dercksz’ death for his paternity 
to be accepted, for the paternity to be attributed to 
any one but Takma? Were they really sitting there 
as father, mother and child? He, was he Takma’s 
grandson? Was he a cousin of Elly’s? . . . He 
didn’t know it for certain, nothing was certain: 
there were—he had heard them very long ago— 
those vague rumours; and there was that likeness! 
But, if it was so, then they both knew it; then, if 
they were not quite dulled, they were thinking of it 
at this moment. They were not in their dotage, 
either of them, those old, old people. It seemed to 
Lot that some emotion had always continued to 
sharpen their wits; for it was wonderful how well 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


136 

Grandmamma, despite her age, understood all 
about everything, about his marriage now, about the 
family: 

“ LFncle Daan and Aunt Floor are on their way 
from India,” said Grandmamma. “ I can’t imagine 
what they are coming for . . . with the winter 

so near. Aunt Floor won’t like it, I know. . . . 

I only wish that / had remained in India, instead 
of coming here. . . . Yes, I’ve been sitting here 

for years now, until . . . until . . . 

She stammered and looked out of the window, 
waiting, waiting. At the other window sat Takma 
and waited, waited, nodding his head. Oh, it was 
awful, thought Lot, looking at his mother. She did 
not understand his look, had forgotten his moment 
of prostration and weakness, his dread of old age, 
because she always forgot when he did not com¬ 
plain; and she merely thought that he wanted to 
get up. She smiled, sadly, as was her custom in 
these days, nodded and was the first to rise: 

“ Well, we’d better be going now, Mamma. . [. . 
Mr. Takma, am I not to see you home? 

“ No, child, it’s not raining; and I can manage 
by myself, I can manage. ...” 

Ottilie’s voice sounded very sad and childish and 
old Takma’s paternal, but fluttering and airy. Lot 
and Elly rose; and there were more careful kisses; 
and Mr. Takma kissed Ottilie also. When they 
were gone, the old doctor came rolling in. 

“ Well, Roelofsz,” said Grandmamma. 


THINGS THAT PASS 


137 

“ Well-well-well, yes-yes,” mumbled the doctor, 
dropping into a chair. 

They sat like that, without words, the three old 
people. The light was waning outside; and a bleak 
autumnal wind drove the first yellow leaves through 
the gardens of the Sofialaan. 

“ You’re out too late, Takma,” said the doctor. 

“ No, no,” said the old man. 

“ It gets chilly early, at this season.” 

“ No, no. I’m not chilly.” 

“ Yes, you’re always blazing hot inside.” 

“ Yes, just as you’re always getting fatter.” 

The doctor gave an explosive laugh, not viciously 
this time, because he had got his joke in first; and 
Takma also laughed, with a shrill, cracked note. 
The old woman did not speak, leant over slightly, 
looked out of the window. The dusk of evening 
was already gathering over the Nassaulaan. 

“ Look,” said the old woman, pointing with her 
trembling, slender, wand-like finger. 

“What?” asked the tv/o men, looking out. 

“I thought . . ..” 

“What?” 

“ I thought that there was something . . . 
moving . . . over there, under the trees. • . .” 

“ What was moving? ” 

“I don’t know: something . r.. some¬ 
body. . . .” 

“ She’s wandering,” thought the doctor to him¬ 
self. 


138 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

“ No, Ottilie,” said Takma, “ there’s nothing 
moving.” 

“ Oh, is there nothing moving? ” 

“ No.” 

“ I thought that something was passing . . . 

just hazily. . . .” 

“ Yes . . . well . . . that’s the damp 

rising,” said the doctor. 

“Yes,” said Takma, “that’s mist. . . 

“ You’re out of doors much too late, Takma,” 
said the doctor. 

“ Fve got my great-coat, a warm one. . . 

“Well-well. ...” 

“ The leaves are rustling,” said the old 
woman. “And the wind’s howling. It’ll soon be 
winter.” 

“Well . . . yes-yes, winter’s coming. One 

more of ’em. . . .” 

“ Yes,” said the old woman. “ The last . . . 
the last winter. . . .” 

“ No-no-no-no I ” boasted the old doctor. “ The 
last! I promise you, you’ll see a hundred yet, 
Ottilie! ...” 

Old Takma nodded his head: 

“ It’s more than sixty years . . .” 

“Wha-at?” exclaimed the doctor, in a startled 
voice. 

“Ago . . .” 

“What are you saying?” cried the old woman, 
shrilly. 


THINGS THAT PASS 


139 

“ Pm saying,” said Takma, “ that Ottilie, that 
Lietje ... is turned sixty ...” 

“Oh, yes!” 

“ And so it’s more than sixty . . . more than 
sixty years ago since . . .” 

“ Si-ince what? ” exclaimed the doctor. 

“ Since Dercksz . . . was drowned,” said 

Takma. 

And he nodded his head. 

“ Oh I ” moaned the old woman, lifting her hands 
to her face with an angular and painful movement. 
“ Don’t speak about that. What made you say 
that?” 

“ No,” said Takma, “ I said nothing. . . .” 

“ No-no-no-no! ” mumbled the doctor. “ Don’t 
talk about it, don’t talk about it. . . . We never 
talk about it. . . . Yes . . . aha . . . 
Takma, what made you talk about it? . . . There- 
there-there-there . .; . it’s nothing, but it makes 

Ottilie sad. . . .” 

“ No,” said the old woman, calmly. “ I’m never 
sad now. . . . I’m much too old for that. . . . 
I only sit and wait. . . . Look, isn’t that some¬ 

thing passing? . . >” 

“Where?” 

“ In the street, opposite . . . or down there, 

in the road . . . something white. ...” 

“Where? Aha, oh, there? . . . No, Ottilie, 
that’s mist.” 

“ The leaves . . . the leaves are rustling.” 


140 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


“ Yes-yes-yes, autumn . >: • winter’s com¬ 
ing. ...” 

“ The last,” said the old woman. 

The doctor mumbled a vague denial. Takma 
nodded his head. They sat very still, for a time. 
Yes, it was more than sixty years ago. . . . They 
all three saw it: the old man and the old woman 
saw it happening; and the doctor saw it as it had 
happened. He had understood and guessed, at once, 
and he had known, all those years long. Very many 
years ago he had been in love with Ottilie, he much 
younger than she, and there was a moment when he 
had called upon her to pay him the price of his 
knowledge. . . . He had buried all that in him¬ 
self, but he saw it as it had happened. . . . It 

was more than sixty years ago. 

“ Come,” said Takma, “ it’s time I went. . . . 
Else . . . else it’ll be too late. . . . ” 

He rose with an effort and remembered that he 
had not torn up one letter to-day. That was not 
right, but the tearing tired his fingers. The 
doctor also arose and rang the bell twice, for the 
companion. 

“ We’re going, juffrouw.” 

It was almost dark in the room. 

“ Good-bye, Ottilie,” said Takma, pressing the 
mittened hand, which was raised an inch or two. 

The doctor also pressed her hand: 

“ Good-bye, Ottilie. . . . Yes-yes-yes: till to¬ 
morrow or next day.” 


THINGS THAT PASS 141 

Mr. Takma found Ottilie Steyn de Weert waiting 
downstairs: 

“ You here still, child? ” 

“ Yes, Mr. Takma. I’ll just see you home. 
You’ve really stayed out too late to-day; Elly 
thought so too; and Adele will be uneasy. . . .” 

“Very well, child, do; see the old man home.” 

He took her arm; and his now irregular step 
tottered as Anna let them out. 

“ Juffrouw,” said the old woman, upstairs, when 
the companion was about to light the lamp, “ wait 
a moment and just look out of the window. Tell 
me: there, on the other side of the road, through 
those leaves falling . . . isn’t there something 

. . . something white . . . passing?” 

The companion looked through the window: 

“ No, mevrouw, there’s nothing. But there’s a 
mist rising. Mr. Takma has stayed much too long 
again.” 

She closed the shutters and lit the lamp. The old 
woman sat and took her soup; then the companion 
and old Anna put her to bed. 


CHAPTER XII 


Old Mr. Pauws came to meet them at the station, 
in the evening, at Brussels: 

“ My dear boy, my dear boy, how are you? And 
so this is your little wife! My dear child, I wish 
you joy with all my heart! ” 

His arms, thrown wide, embraced first Lot and 
then Elly. 

“ And IVe taken a room for you at the Metro- 
pole, but I reckoned on it that you’d first come and 
have supper at my place. Then I shall have been 
at your wedding too. I don’t expect you’re tired, 
are you? No, it’s nothing of a journey. Better send 
your trunks straight to the hotel. I’ve got a car¬ 
riage: shall we go home at once? Do you think 
there’s room for the three of us? Yes, yes, we’ll 
fit in nicely.” 

It was the second time that Elly had seen the 
old gentleman, a pink-and-white, well-preserved man 
of seventy: she had been with Lot to look him up 
during their engagement. There was something de¬ 
cided and authoritative about him, together with a 
cheerful gaiety, especially now, because he was seeing 
Lot again. He would receive them at his own place, 
at his rooms, for he lived in bachelor quarters. He 
opened the door with his latch-key; he had paid the 
14a 


THINGS THAT PASS 143 

cabman quickly, before Lot could; and he how 
hustled the young couple up the stairs. He himself 
lit a gas-jet in the passage: 

“ I have no one to wait on me In the evening, as 
you see. A femme-de-menage comes in the morning. 
I take my meals at a restaurant. I thought of treat¬ 
ing the two of you to supper at a restaurant; but I 
think this is pleasanter. . . . There! ” 

And he now lit the gas In the sitting-room, with a 
quick movement, like a young man’s. Elly smiled 
at him. The table was laid and there were flowers 
on It and a few pints of Heldsieck in a wine-cooler. 

“Welcome, my dear child!” said the old man, 
kissing Elly. 

He helped her take off her hat and cloak and 
carried them into his bedroom: 

“ You’d better bring your coat In here too. Lot.” 

“ Your father Is wonderful! ” said Elly. 

The little sitting-room was cosy and comfortable; 
It was his own furniture. There were books about; 
photographs on the walls and prints of horses and 
dogs; arms on a rack; and, underneath—it im¬ 
pressed Elly, just as It had impressed her the first 
time—a portrait of Ottilie at twenty, in an old- 
fashioned bonnet which made her look exquisitely 
pretty, like a little heroine in a novel. Strange, * 
thought Elly to herself, Steyn also had pictures of 
dogs and horses in his room; Steyn also was a hunt¬ 
ing man, a man of out-door pursuits; Steyn also was 
good-looking. She smiled at her reflection that it 


144 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

was always the same sort of manliness that had 
attracted Ottilie; she smiled just as Lot sometimes 
smiled at his mother. 

“ You two are very like each other,” said Pauws, 
as they sat down to table. “ Look, children, here’s 
what I’ve got for you. Everything’s ready, you see. 
Hors d’oeuvres. Do you like caviare, with these 
toasted rolls? ” 

“ I’m mad on caviare,” said Lot. 

“ I remembered that! After the hors d’oeuvres, 
a mayonnaise of fish: perhaps that’s rather too much 
fish, but I had to think out a cold menu, for I’ve no 
cook and no kitchen. Then there’s cold chicken and 
compote: a Dutch dish for you; they never eat the 
two together here or in France. Next, there’s a 
pdte-de-foie-gras. And tartlets for you, Elly.” 

“ I’m fond of tartlets too,” said Lot, attentively 
examining the dish. 

“ All the better. A decent claret, Chateau-Yquem 
and Heidsieck. I got you some good fruit. Coffee, 
liqueurs, a cigar, a cigarette for you, Elly, and that’s 
all. It’s the best I could do.” 

“ But, Papa, it’s delightful!” 

The old gentleman was uncorking the champagne, 
quickly and handily, with a twist of the wires: 

“ Here goes, children! ” 

The wine frothed up high. 

“ Wait, Elly, wait, let me fill up your glass. . . . 
There, here’s to you, children, and may you be 
happy! ” 


THINGS THAT PASS 


145 


You take after Lot,” said Elly. 

“I? In that case, Lot takes after me.” 

“ Yes, I meant that of course.” 

“Ah, but it’s quite a different thing!” 

“ Yes, but Lot . . . Lot is also like his 
mother.” 

“ Yes, I’m like Mamma,” said Lot. 

He was short, slender, almost frail of build and 
fair; the old gentleman was solid in flesh and figure, 
with a fresh complexion and very thick grey hair, 
which still showed a few streaks of black. 

“ Yes, but I think Lot also has that flippancy of 
yours, though he is like his mother.” 

“Oh, so I’m flippant, am I?” said old Pauws, 
laughing. 

His hands, moving in sweeping gestures, were 
busy across the table, with the hors d’oeuvres, which 
he was now handing. 

“ Would you ever believe that Papa was 
seventy?” said Lot. “Papa, I’m amazed every 
time I see you! What keeps you so young?” 

“ I don’t know, my boy; I’m built that way.” 

“ Were you never afraid of getting old?” 

“ No, my dear fellow, I’ve never been afraid 
. . . of getting old or of anything else.” 

“ Then whom do I get it from? Mamma hasn’t 
that fear, not as I have it, although . . .” 

“You’re an artist; they have those queer ideas. 
I’m just ordinary.” 

“ Yes, I wish I were like you, tall and broad- 


146 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

shouldered. Pm always jealous when I look at 
you.” 

“ Come, Lot, you’re very well as you are! ” said 
Elly, defending him against himself. 

“ If you were like me, you wouldn’t have attracted 
your wife, what do you say, Elly?” 

“Well, there’s no telling. Papa! ” 

“How are things at home, my boy?” 

“ Same as usual, just the same.” 

“ Is Mamma well? ” 

“ Physically, yes. Morally, she’s depressed . l*: 
because I’m married.” 

“How do she and Steyn get on?” 

“ They quarrel.” 

“ Ah, that mother of yours! ” said Pauws. “ Elly, 
will you help the mayonnaise? No, Lot, give me 
the Yquem: I’ll open it. . . . That mother of 

yours has always quarrelled. Pity she had that in 
her. Temper, violent words ... all about 
nothing: it was always like that in my time. And 
she was so nice otherwise . . . and so sweetly 

pretty! ” 

“ Yes,” said Lot, “ and I’m like Mamma, an ugly 
edition.” 

“ He doesn’t mean a word of it,” said Elly. 

“ No,” said the old gentleman, “ not a word of 
it, the conceited fellow! ” 

“ All the same. I’d rather be like you. Papa.” 

“ Lot, you’re talking nonsense. . . . Some more 
mayonnaise, Elly? Sure? Then we’ll see what the 


THINGS THAT PASS 


147 

cold chicken’s made of. No, give it here, Lot, I’ll 
carve. . . . And your wedding was very quiet? 

No religious ceremony?” 

“ No.” 

“ No reception? ” 

“ No, Elly has so few friends and I have so few, 
in Holland. We lead such a life of our own, at 
the Hague. I know more people in Italy than I do 
at the Hague. The whole family rather lives a life 
of its own. Except the D’Herbourgs there’s really 
nobody.” 

“That’s true.” 

“ Those very old, old people are out of the 
question, of course.” 

“ Yes, Grandpapa, Grandmamma. And 

the old doctor. . . .” 

“ Uncle Anton lives his own life.” 

“H’m, h’m . . . yes. . . 

“ Uncle Harold is old also.” 

“ Two years older than I.” 

“ But he’s poorly.” 

“ Yes . . . and queer. Always has been. Quiet 
and melancholy. Still, a very good sort.” 

“ We at home, with Steyn and Mamma: what’s 
the use of our entertaining people? ” 

“You forget Aunt Stefanie: she’s an aunt with 
money to leave, just as Uncle Anton is an uncle with 
money to leave; but your aunt has plenty.” 

“ Oh, Lot is quite indifferent to what money he 
inherits! ” said Elly. 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


148 

“ Besides, you two won’t be badly off,” said old 
Pauws. “ You’re right: what’s the use of wedding- 
festivities? As for acquaintances . . 

“ We none of us have many.” 

“ It’s a funny thing. As a rule, there’s such a lot 
of movement around Indian families. ‘ Swirl ’ we 
used to call it.” 

“ Oh, I don’t know: there’s no ‘ swirl ’ of ac¬ 
quaintances round us I” 

“ No, we’ve had ‘ swirl ’ enough among our¬ 
selves: Mamma saw to that at least! ” 

“ It made Mamma lose her friends too.” 

“ Of course it did. Mamma’s life has really been 
hardly decent . . . with her three husbands! ” 

“Well, of course. ... I don’t allow it to 
upset me. . . . But the family isn’t thought 

much of.” 

“ No. Grandmamma was the first to begin it. 
She also did just what she pleased. . . .” 

“ I’ve heard a lot of vague rumours. . . .” 

“ Well, I’ve heard a lot of rumours too, but they 
weren’t vague. Grandmamma was a grande 
coquette in her €ay and inspired more than her 
share of the great passions in Java.” 

“They say that Mamma . . .” 

“ I don’t know, but it’s quite possible. At least, 
you two are so like each other that you might be 
brother and sister.” 

“ Well, at the worst, we’re cousins,” said Elly. 

“ Yes, Grandmamma began it. . . . There was 


THINGS THAT PASS 149 

a lot of talk. . . . Oh, those people are so old 

now! Their contemporaries are dead. And things 
pass. Who is there now to think and talk about 
things that are so long past? ” 

“ Grandmamma’s lovers? ” 

“ Innumerable! ” 

“ The doctor? ” 

“ So they say. And Elly’s grandpapa.” 

“ Those old people! ” said Elly. 

“ They were young once.” 

“ And we shall be old one day,” said Lot. “ We’re 
growing old as it is.” 

“ Shut up, boy! There’s time enough for that 
when you’re seventy. . . . Yes, Grandmamma 

de Laders, Grandmamma Dercksz: I can remember 
her in India fifty years ago.” 

“ O my God, what a time to remember things I ” 
said Lot, shuddering. 

“ Take some more champagne, if it makes your 
flesh creep. . . . Fifty years ago, I was little 

more than a boy, I was twenty. Grandmamma was 
still a fine woman, well over forty. She became a 
widow quite young, on the death of her first husband. 
Well, let’s see: when Dercksz was drowned, she 
was . . . about . . . thirty-six. . . . Then 

Mamma was born.” 

“ What a long, long time ago that was! ” said 
Lot. “ It makes one giddy to look back upon.” 

“ That’s sixty, yes, sixty years ago now,” said 
Pauws, dreamily. “ I was a child then, ten years 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


150 

old. I still remember the incident. I was at 
Semarang; my father was in the paymaster’s de¬ 
partment. My people knew the Derckszes. The 
thing was talked about. I was a child, but it made 
an impression on me. It was very much talked 
about, it was talked about for years and years after. 
There was a question of exhuming the body. They 
decided that it was too late. At that time, he had 
been buried for months. They said that . . .” 

“ That a native . . . with a kris . . . be¬ 
cause of a woman . . . ? ” 

“Yes; and they said more than that. They said 
that Takma had been to the pasangrahan that 
evening and that Grandmamma. . . . But what’s 
the use of talking about it? What can it matter 
to you ? Elly’s as white as a sheet—child, how pale 
you look!—and Lot is shivering all over his body, 
though it happened so long ago.” 

“ Should you say that those old people . . 

are hiding something?” 

“ Probably,” said Pauws. “ Come, let’s have 
some champagne and not talk about it any more. 
They themselves have forgotten it all by this time. 
When you get as old as that . . .” 

“ You become dulled,” said Lot. 

“So you’re going on to Paris to-morrow?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Shall you look up Aunt Therese? ” 

“ Yes, I expect so,” said Elly. “ We mustn’t be¬ 
have quite like savages.” 


THINGS THAT PASS 151 

‘‘And then?” 

“ We shall go to Nice.” 

“Oh, really? . . • And . ,.] .. and will you 
see Ottilie there? ” 

“ Of course we shall,” said Lot. 

“ That’s right, that’s right. . . . Yes, how can 
you expect a family like ours to keep up a circle of 
decent acquaintances? . . . Ottilie writes to me 

now and again. . . . She’s living with an Italian. 
. . . Why they don’t get married is more than I 
can make out.” 

“ And why should they get married? ” asked Lot. 

“ But, Lot,” said Elly, “ you and I did! ” 

“ We are more conventional than Ottilie. I am 
more conventional than Ottilie ever was. I should 
never have dared to suggest to you not to get mar¬ 
ried. Ottilie is more thorough than 1 .” 

“ She’s a thorough fine girl . 1, and a devilish 

handsome woman,” said Pauws. 

“ Now she^s like you.” 

“ But a good-looking edition 1 ” said the old 
gentleman, chaffingly. Here, Elly, have some more 
pate. But why they don’t want to get married I 
can’t and never shall make out. After all, we have 
all of us got married.” 

“ But how? ” said Lot. 

“ I must say you’re not defending marriage very 
vigorously on your wedding-day! ” 

“ Ottilie has seen so many unhappy marriages all 
around her.” 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


152 

“ That’s what she writes. But I don’t consider 
that a reason. Hang it all, when a man falls in 
love, he goes and gets married! He gets married 
by the mayor and by the parson. . . . Yes, to tell 
you the truth, I think it was rather feeble of you 
two not to get married in church.” 

“ But, Papa, you surely don’t attach importance 
to having your marriage blessed by a parson 1 ” 

“ No more I do, but still one does it. It’s one 
of the things one does. We’re not quite a law unto 
ourselves.” 

“ No, but all social laws are being changed.” 

“Well, you can say what you please: I stick to 
it that you have to get married. By the mayor and 
by the parson. You two have been married by the 
mayor; but Ottilie refuses to be married at all. And 
I’m expected to think it natural and enlightened and 
I don’t know what. I can’t do it. I’m sorry for 
her sake. It’s all very well: she’s a great artist and 
can behave differently from an ordinary woman; but, 
if one fine day she returns to our ordinary circles, 
she’ll find that she’s made herself impossible. . . . 
How would you have friends and acquaintances 
gather round such a family?” 

“ They don’t gather; and I’m glad of it. I have 
the most charming acquaintances in Italy, friends 
who . . .” 

“ Children, you may be right. Ottilie may be 
right not to get married at all; and you may be 
right to have been married only by the mayor.” 


THINGS THAT PASS 153 

“ At any rate,” said Elly, “ I never thought that, 
though there was no reception, we should have such 
a cosy little supper.” 

“ And such a nice one,” said Lot. “ Elly, these 
tarts are heavenly! ” 

“ Only we oughtn’t to have sat rooting up past 
things,” said the old gentleman. ” It makes Lot’s 
flesh creep. Look at the fellow eating tarts! It’s 
just what your mother used to do. A baby, a regu¬ 
lar baby!” 

“ Yes, I’m a baby sometimes too, but not so much 
as Mamma.” 

“And is she going to England now?” 

“ She promised me not to. But her promise 
doesn’t mean much. We shall be so long away; we 
shall be in Italy all through the winter. There’s one 
thing makes me feel easier: Mamma has no money; 
and I went to the bank before I left and asked them, 
if Mamma came for money, to make up a story and 
persuade her that it couldn’t be done, that there 
was no money. . . . ” 

“ But she draws . . . she always did.” 

“ The manager told me that he would help me, 
that he wouldn’t let her have any money.” 

“ Then she’ll get it just the same.” 

“ From whom? ” 

“ I don’t know, but she’ll get it. She always gets 
it, I don’t know how. ...” 

“But, Papa!” 

“ Yes, my boy, you can be as indignant as you 


154 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

please: I am speaking from experience. How often 
haven’t I had questions about money with Mamma 1 
First there was none; and then, all of a sudden, 
there it was! . . 

“ Mamma is bad at figures and she is untidy. 
Then she finds some money in her cupboard.” 

“Yes, I know all about it: in the old days she 
was always finding something in her cupboard. A 
good thing, that she goes on finding it. Still, we 
should never have parted because of money. If it 
hadn’t been for that damned Trevelley, we might 
still . . . But, when Mamma had once set her 

heart on anybody, then . . . Don’t let’s talk 

about it. . . . Look here, you know this old photo¬ 
graph. It’s charming, isn’t it, Elly? Yes, that’s how 
she used to look. I’ve never been able to forget her. 
I’ve never loved any one else. I’m an old fellow 
now, children, but . . . but I believe that I’m 

still fond of her. ... I sometimes think that it’s 
past, that it’s all past and done with; and yet, some¬ 
times, old as I am, I still suffer from it and feel 
rotten. ... I believe I’m still fond of her. .1 . . 
And, if Mamma had had a different character and 
a different temper and if she hadn’t met Trevelley 
.; . . But there are so very many ‘ ifs ’ in the case. 
-. . . And, if she hadn’t met Trevelley, she would 
have met Steyn just the same, f.- . . She would 

always have met somebody. . . . Come, Elly, 

pour out the coffee. Will you have chartreuse or 
benedictine? And stay on and talk a bit, cosily. Not 


THINGS THAT PASS 


155 

about old things: about young things, young things; 
about yourselves, your plans, Italy. . . . It’s not 
late yet; it’s barely half-past ten. . . . But, of 

course, you’re only this moment married. . . . 
Well, I’ll see you to your hotel. . . . Shall we 

walk? It’s no distance. . . . Let your old father 
see you to your hotel and give you a good-night kiss 
at the door and wish you happiness, every happi¬ 
ness . ,. . dear children I ” 


CHAPTER XIII 


They had now been a few days in Paris; and Elly, 
who was seeing Paris for the first time, was en¬ 
chanted. The Louvre, the Cluny, the life in the 
streets and the cafes, the theatres in the evenings al¬ 
most drove Aunt Therese from her mind. 

“ Oh, don’t let’s go to her! ” said Lot, one 
morning, as they were walking along the boulevards. 
“ Perhaps she doesn’t even know who we are.” 

Elly felt a twinge of conscience: 

“ She wrote me a very nice letter on my engage¬ 
ment and she gave us a wedding-present. Yes, Lot, 
she knows quite well who we are.” 

“ But she doesn’t know that we’re in Paris. Don’t 
let’s go to her. Aunt Therese: I haven’t seen her 
for years, but I remember her long ago ... at 
the time of Mamma’s last marriage. I was a boy 
of eighteen then. Aunt Therese must have been 
forty-eight. A handsome woman. She was even 
more like Grandmamma than Mamma is: she had 
all that greatness and grandness and majesty which 
you see in the earlier portraits of Grandmamma and 
which she still has when she sits enthroned in her 
chair. ... It always impresses me. . . . Very 
slender and handsome and elegant . . calm and 

156 


THINGS THAT PASS 157 

restful, distinguished-looking, with a delightful 
smile.” 

“ The smile of La Gioconda. . . 

** The smile of La Gioconda^* Lot repeated, 
laughing because of his wife, who was enjoying her¬ 
self so in Paris. “ But by the way, Elly . . . the 
Venus of Milo: I couldn’t tell you so when we were 
standing there, because you were in such silent 
rapture, but . . . after I hadn’t seen her for 

years, I found her such a disappointment. Only 
imagine . . .” 

“Well, what. Lot?” 

“ I thought her grown old! ” 

“But, Lot! ...” 

“ I assure you, I thought her grown old! Does 
everything grow old then, do even the immortals 
grow old? I remember her as she used to be: calm, 
serene, imposing, white as snow, in spite of her 
mutilation, against a brilliant background of dark- 
red velvet. This time I thought her no longer 
imposing, no longer white as snow; she seemed pa¬ 
thetically crippled; and the velvet background was 
no longer brilliant. Everything had grown old and 
dull and I had a shock and felt very sad. . . . 

Soberly speaking, I think now that they ought 
just to clean her down one morning and renew 
the velvet hanging; and then, on a sunny day, if I 
was in a good mood, I daresay I should think her 
serene and white as snow again. But, as she showed 
herself to me, I thought her grown old; and it gave 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


158 

me a shock. It upset me for quite an hour, but I 
didn’t let you see it. . . . For that matter, I 

think Paris altogether has grown very old: so 
dirty, so old-fashioned, so provincial; a conglom¬ 
eration of quartiers and small towns huddled to¬ 
gether; and so exactly the same as it was fifteen 
years ago, but older, grimier and more old-fashioned. 
Look! This papier-mache chicken here”—they 
were in the Avenue de I’Opera—“ has been turning 
on that spit, as an advertisement, with the oily butter 
dripping from it: Elly, that chicken has been turning 
for fifteen years! And last night, at the Theatre 
Frangais, I had a shock, just as I did to-day at the 
Venus of Milo. The Theatre Frangais had grown 
so old, so old, with that dreadful ranting, that I 
asked myself, ‘Was it always so old, or do I think 
it old because I am older myself? ’ . , 

“ But Aunt Therese ...” 

“ So you insist on going to her. . . . Really, 

we’d better not. She too has grown old; and what 
are we to her? . . . We are young still. . . . 

I also am young still, am I not? . . .You don’t 
think me too old, your blase husband? ... In 
Italy, we shall find real enjoyment. . . .” 

“ Why, everything will be still older there! ” 

“ Yes, but everything is not growing older. That’s 
all past, it’s all the past. It’s the obvious past and 
therefore it’s so restful. It’s all dead.” 

“ But surely the country is alive ? . . Modern 

life goes on? . . .” 


THINGS THAT PASS 


159 

“ I don’t care about that. All that I see is the 
past; and that is so beautifully^ so restfully dead. 
That doesn’t sadden me. What saddens me is the 
old people and the old things that are still alive and 
ever so old and have gradually, gradually gone past 
us; but things which are restfully dead and which 
are so exquisitely beautiful as in Italy, they don’t 
sadden me: they calm me and rouse my admiration 
for everything that was once so beautifully alive and 
is still so beautiful in death. Paris saddens me, 
because the city is dying, as all France is; Rome 
exhilarates me: the city, what I see of it, is dead; 
and I feel myself young in it still and still alive; 
and that makes me glad, selfishly glad, while at the 
same time I admire the dead, calm beauty.” 

“ So that will be the subject of your next essay.” 
“Now you’re teasing! If I can’t talk without 
being accused of essay-writing . . I’ll hold 

my tongue.” 

“ Don’t be so cross. . . . Now what about 

Aunt Therese? ” 

“We won’t go. . . . Well, talk of the devil! 

Goodness gracious, how small Paris is! A village! ” 
“ Why, what is it. Lot? ” 

“ There’s Theo! Theo van der Staff! ” 

“ Theo, Aunt Therese’s son? ” 

“Yes. Hullo, Theo! How are you? . . . 

How funny that we should meet you! ...” 

“ I didn’t know you were in Paris. . . . Are 

you on your honeymoon? ” 


i6o OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

He was a fat little man of over forty, with a 
round face containing a pair of small, sparkling eyes: 
they leered at Elly with an almost irresistible curi¬ 
osity to see the young wife, married but a few days 
since. A sensuality ever seeking physical enjoyment 
surrounded him as with a warm atmosphere, jovial 
and engaging, as though he would invite them 
presently to come and have a nice lunch with him 
in a good restaurant and to go on somewhere 
afterwards. His long residence abroad had 
imparted a something to his clothes, a something 
to his speech and gestures that lightened his native 
Dutch heaviness, rather comically, it is true, be¬ 
cause he remained a little elephantine in his grace. 
Yet his ears pricked up like a satyr’s; and his eyes 
sparkled; and his laughing lips swelled thickly, as 
though with Indian blood; and his small, well-kept 
teeth glistened in between. When a woman passed, 
his quick glance undressed her in a twinkling; and 
he seemed to reflect, for a second or two. 

“ We were just speaking of your mother, Theo. 
Funny that we should meet you,” Lot repeated. 

“ I walk down the boulevards every morning, so 
it’s very natural that we should meet. I’m glad to 
have the opportunity of congratulating you. . . . 

Mamma? She’s all right, I believe.” 

“ Haven’t you seen her lately? ” 

“ I haven’t seen her for a week. Are you going 
to call on her? Then I may as well come too. 
Shall we have a good lunch somewhere afterwards, 


THINGS THAT PASS i6i 

or shall I be in the way? If not, come and lunch 
with me. Not in one of your big restaurants, which 
everybody knows, but at a place where Fll take 
you: quite a small place, but exquisite. They have 
a homard a Vamericaine that’s simply heavenly! ” 
And he kissed the tips of his fat fingers. “ Do you 
want to go to Mamma’s at once? Very well, 
we’ll take a carriage, for she lives a long way 
off.” 

He stopped a cab and gave the address: 

Cent-vingt-cingy Rue Madame.” 

And he gallantly helped Elly in, then Lot, insisted 
upon himself taking the little back seat and sat like 
that, with one foot on the step of the carriage. He 
enquired conventionally and indifferently after the 
relations at the Hague, as after strangers whom he 
had seen once or twice. In the Rue Madame the 
driver pulled up outside a gate of tall railings, with 
a fence of boards behind it, so that no one could 
see in. 

“ This is the convent where Mamma lives,” said 
Theo. 

They stepped out and Theo rang. A sister opened 
the gate, said that Mme. van der Staff was at home 
and led the way across the courtyard. The con¬ 
vent belonged to the Sisters of the Immaculate Con¬ 
ception of Our Lady of Lourdes; and Aunt Therese 
boarded there, together with a few other pious old 
ladies. The sister showed them into a small parlour 
on the ground-floor and opened the shutters. On 


i 62 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

the mantelpiece stood a statue of the Blessed Virgin 
between two candelabra; there were a sofa and a 
few chairs in white loose covers. 

“Is Reverend Mother at home, sister?” asked 
Theo. 

“ Yes, monsieur.” 

“ Would it be convenient for her to see me? Will 
you tell her that I have come to call on her? ” 

“ Yes, monsieur.” 

The sister left the room. Theo gave a wink: 

“ I ought to have done that long ago,” he said. 
“ I am seizing the opportunity. The reverend 
mother is a sensible woman, twice as sensible as 
Mamma.” 

They waited. It was cold and shivery in the bare 
parlour. Lot shuddered and said: 

“ I couldn’t do it. No, I couldn’t do it.” 

“ No more could I,” said Theo. 

The reverend mother was the first to enter: a 
short woman, lost in the spacious folds of her habit. 
Two brown eyes gleamed from under the white 
band over her forehead. 

“ M. van der Staff ...” 

“Madame . . .” 

He pressed her hand: 

“ I have long been wanting to come and see you, 
to tell you how grateful I am for the care which 
you bestow upon my mother.” 

His French sentences sounded polite, gallant and 
courteous. 


THINGS THAT PASS 163 

“ May I introduce my cousins, M. and Mme. 
Pauws? ” 

“ Newly married, I believe,” said the reverend 
mother, bowing, with a little smile. 

Lot was surprised that she should know: 

“We have come to pay my aunt a visit . . . 

and you too, madame la superieure^” he added, 
courteously. 

“ Pray sit down. Madame will be here at once.” 

“Is Mamma qfuite well?” asked Theo. “I 
haven’t seen her . . . for some time.” 

“ She’s very well,” said the reverend mother. 
“ Because we look after her.” 

“ I know you do.” 

“ She won’t look after herself. As you know, 
she goes to extremes. Le bon D'leu doesn’t expect 
us to go to such extremes as madame does. I don’t 
pray a quarter as much as madame. Madame is 
always praying. I shouldn’t have time for it. Le hon 
Dieii doesn’t expect it. We have our work; I have 
my nursing-institute, which keeps us very busy. At 
this moment, nearly all the sisters are out nursing. 
Then I have my servants’ registry-office. We can*t 
always be praying.” 

“ Mamma can,” said Theo, with a laugh. 

“ Madame prays too much^* said the reverend 
mother. \s ?Ln enthousiaste . . .” 

“ Always was, in everything she did,” said Theo, 
staring in front of him. 

“ And she has remained so. She is an enthousiaste 


164 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

in her new creed, in our religion. But she oughn’t 
to go to extremes . . . or to fast unnecessarily. 

. . . The other day we found her fainting in the 

chapel. . . . And we have our little trues: when 

it is not absolutely necessary to fast, we give her 
bouillon in her soupe-maigre or over her vege¬ 
tables, without her noticing it. . . . Here is 

madame. . . 

The door was opened by a sister; and Mrs. van 
der Staff, Aunt Therese, entered the room. And it 
seemed to Lot as though he saw Grandmamma her¬ 
self walk in, younger, but still an old woman. 
Dressed in a smooth black gown, she was tall and 
majestic and very slender, with a striking grace in 
her movements. Grandmamma must have been just 
like that. A dream hovered over her dark eyes, 
which had remained the eyes of a creole, and it 
seemed as if she had a difficulty in seeing through 
the dream; but the mouth, old as it now was, had a 
natural smile, with ecstasy playing around it. She 
accepted Theo’s kiss and said to Lot and Elly, in 
French: 

“ It’s very nice of you to look me up. I’m very 
grateful to you. ... So this is Elly? I saw 
you years ago, in Holland, at Grandpapa Takma’s. 
You were a little girl of fourteen then. It’s very 
nice of you to come. Sit down. I never go to 
Holland now . . . but I often think, I very often 
think ... of my relations. . . 

The dream hovered over her eyes; ecstasy played 


THINGS THAT PASS 165 

around her smile. She folded her thin hands in 
her lap; and their fingers were slender and wand¬ 
like, like Grandmamma’s. Her voice sounded like 
Grandmamma’s. As she sat there, in her black 
gown, in the pale light of that convent-parlour, per¬ 
meated with a chilliness that was likewise pale, the 
resemblance was terrifying: this daughter appeared 
to be one and the same as her mother, seemed to be 
that mother herself; and it was as though bygone 
years had returned in a wonderful, haunting, pale, 
white light. 

“And how are they all at the Hague?” asked 
Aunt Therese. 

A few words were exchanged about the members 
of the family. Soon the reverend mother rose 
discreetly, said good-bye, expressed her thanks for 
the visit. 

“How is Uncle Harold? . . . And how is 

Mamma, Charles? I very often think of her. I 
often pray for Mamma, Charles. . . .” 

Her voice, long cracked, sounded softer than 
pure Dutch and was mellow with its creole accent; 
both Lot and Elly were touched by a certain tender¬ 
ness in that cracked voice, while Theo stared pain¬ 
fully in front of him: he felt depressed and con¬ 
strained in his mother’s presence. 

“ It is nice of you not to forget us,” Lot ven¬ 
tured to say. 

“ I shall never forget your mother,” said Aunt 
Therese. “ I never see her now and perhaps I 


166 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

shall never see her again. But I am very, very 
fond of her . . . and I pray, I often pray for 
her. She needs it. We all need it. I pray for all 
of them ... for all the family. They all 
need it. And I also pray for Mamma, for Grand¬ 
mamma. And, Elly, I pray for Grandpapa too. 
. . .1 have been praying now for years, I have 

been praying for quite thirty years. God is sure 
to hear my prayers. . . .” 

It was difficult to say anything; and Elly merely 
took Aunt’s hand and pressed it. Aunt Therese 
lifted Elly’s face a little by the chin, looked at it 
attentively, then looked at Lot. She was struck by 
a resemblance, but said nothing. 

She knew. Aunt Therese knew. She never went 
to Holland now and she expected that probably she 
would never again see her sister, whom she knew 
to be Takma’s child, never again see Takma, never 
again her mother. But she prayed, especially for 
those old people, because she knew. She, who had 
once, like her mother, been a woman of society and 
a woman of passion, with a creole’s heart that loved 
and hated fervently, had learnt from her mother’s 
own lips, in violent attacks of fever, the Thing which 
she had since known. She had seen her mother 
see—though she herself had not seen—she had 
seen her mother see the spectre looming in the 
corner of the room. She had heard her mother 
beg for mercy and for an end to her punishment. 
She had not, as had Harold Dercksz, seen the 


THINGS THAT PASS 167 

Thing sixty years ago, but she had known it for 
thirty years. And the knowledge had given a 
permanent shock to her nervous and highly-strung 
soul; and, after being the creole, the woman 
of passionate love and hatred, the woman of 
adventures, the woman who loved and afterwards 
hated those whom she had loved, she had sunk 
herself in contemplation, had bathed in ecstasy, 
which shone down upon her from the celestial panes 
of the church-windows; and one day, in Paris, she 
had gone to a priest and said: 

“ Father, I want to pray. I feel drawn towards 
your faith. I wish to become a Catholic. I have 
wished it for months.” 

She had become a Catholic and now she prayed. 
She prayed for herself, but she prayed even more 
for her mother. All her highly-strung soul went 
up in prayer for that mother whom she would 
probably never see again, but through whom she 
suffered and whom she hoped to redeem from sin 
and save from too horrible a punishment hereafter; 
that mother who had prevented him, her father, 
from defending himself, by clinging to him until 
the other man had snatched the weapon from the 
clenched hand that was seeking revenge in blood- 
maddened rage. . . . She knew. Aunt Therese 

knew. And she prayed, she always prayed. Never 
could too many prayers rise to Heaven to implore 
mercy. 

“ Mamma,” said Theo, “ the reverend mother 


i68 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


told me that you have fainted in chapeL And that 
you don’t eat.” 

“ Yes, I eat, I eat,” said Aunt Therese, softly 
and slowly. “ Don’t make yourself uneasy, Theo.” 

A contempt for her son embittered the smile on 
her old lips; her voice, in addressing her son, grew 
cold and hard, as though she, the woman of con¬ 
stant prayer, suddenly became once more towards 
her son the former woman, who had loved and 
afterwards hated that son’s father, the father who 
was not her husband. 

“ I eat,” said Aunt Therese. “ Indeed, I eat too 
much. Those good sisters! They sometimes forget 
when we have to fast; and they give me meat. Then 
I take it and give it to my poor. . . . Tell me 

more, children, tell me more about the Hague. I 
have a few moments left. Then I must go to the 
chapel. I say my prayers with the sisters.” 

And she asked after everybody, all the brothers 
and sisters and their children: 

“ I pray for all of them,” she said. I shall 
pray for you also, children.” 

A restlessness overcame her and she listened for 
a sound in the passage. Theo winked at Lot and 
they rose to their feet. 

“ No,” Aunt Therese assured them, “ I shall not 
forget you. Send me your photographs, won’t 
you? ” 

They promised. 

“Where is your sister, Charles?” 


THINGS THAT PASS 


169 


“ At Nice, Aunt.” 

“ Send me her photograph. I pray for her too. 
Good-bye, children, good-bye, dear children.” 

She took leave of Lot and Elly and went away 
in a dream and forgot to notice Theo. He 
shrugged his shoulders. The chant of a litany came 
from the chapel, which occupied a larger room 
opposite the little parlour. 

They met the reverend mother in the passage; 
she was on her way to the chapel: 

“ How did you find your aunt? ” she whispered. 
“ Going to extremes, I expect: yes, she does go to 
extremes. Look! . . .” 

And she made Elly, Lot and Theo peep through 
the door of the chapel. The sisters, kneeling on 
the praying-chairs, were chanting their prayers. On 
the floor, between the chairs, lay Aunt Therese, 
prostrate at full length, with her face hidden in 
her hands. 

“Look!” said the reverend mother, with a 
frown. “ Even we don’t do that. It is unneces¬ 
sary. It is not even convenable. I shall have to 
tell monsieur le directeur, so that he may speak to 
madame about it. I shall certainly tell him. Ju 
revoir, madame^ au revoir, messieurs, . . .” 

She bowed, like a woman of the world, with a 
smile and an air of calm distinction. 

A sister saw them to the gate, let them out. . . . 

“Oof!” sighed Theo. “I’ve performed my 
filial duty once more for a few months.” 


170 THINGS THAT PASS 

“ I could not do it,” muttered Lot. “ I simply 
couldn’t.” 

Elly said nothing. Her eyes were wide-open and 
staring. She understood devotion and she under¬ 
stood vocation; though she understood differently, 
where she was concerned, yet she understood. 

“ And now for the homard a Vamerlcaine! ” cried 
Theo. 

And, as he hailed a carriage, it was as though 
his fat body became relaxed, simply from breathing 
the fresh, free air. 


CHAPTER Xiy 


In the night express, the young wife sat thinking. 
Lot lay asleep, with a rug over him, in one corner 
of the carriage, but the little bride could not sleep, 
for an autumnal wind was howling along the train; 
and so she just sat silently, in the other corner, think¬ 
ing. She had now given her life to another and 
hoped for happiness. She hoped that she had a 
vocation and that she would have devotion to 
bestow. That was happiness; there was nothing 
else; and Aunt Therese was right, even though she, 
Elly, conceived devotion, happiness and vocation so 
very differently. She wanted more than the feeling, 
the thought; she wanted, above all, action. Even as 
she had always given herself to action, though it 
was only tennis at first—and sculpture later and in 
the end the pouring out of her own sorrow in words 
and the sending of it to an editor, to a publisher— 
so she now longed to devote herself to action, or 
at least to active collaboration. She looked wist¬ 
fully at Lot and felt that she loved him, however 
differently it might be from the way in which she 
had loved the first time. She loved him less for 
her own sake, as when she had been in love before, 
and loved him more for his sake, to rouse him to 
great things. It was all very vague, but there was 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


172 

ambition in it and ambition, springing from love, 
for his sake. What a pity that he should fritter 
away his talent in witty little articles and hastily- 
written essays. That was like his conversation, 
light and amusing, unconvinced and unconvincing; 
and he could do better than that, much better. 
Perhaps writing a novel was also not the great 
thing; perhaps the great thing was writing, but not 
a novel. What then? She sought and did not yet 
find, but knew for certain—or thought she knew— 
that she would find and that she would rouse Lot. 
. . . Yes, they would be happy, they would con¬ 

tinue happy. . . . Out there, in Italy, she would 
find it. She would find it in the past, in history, 
perhaps; in things that were past, in beautiful noble 
things that were dead, peacefully dead and still 
beautiful. . . . Then why did she feel so melan¬ 

choly? Or was it only the melancholy which she 
had always felt, so vaguely, and which was as a 
malady underlying all her activity and which broke 
in the inflection of her quick, voluble voice: the 
melancholy because her youth, as a child without 
parents, brothers or sisters, had bloomed so quietly 
in the old man’s big house. He had always been 
kind and full of fatherly care for her; but he was 
so old and she had felt the pressure of his old 
years. She had always had old people around her, 
for, as far back as she could remember anything, 
she remembered old Grandmamma Dercksz and 
Dr. Roelofsz: she knew them, old even then, from 


THINGS THAT PASS 


173 

the time when she was a little child. Lot also, she 
thought—though the life of a man, who went about 
and travelled, was different from that of a girl, who 
stayed at home—Lot also had felt the pressure of 
all that old age around him; and that, no doubt, 
was the reason why his dread of growing old had 
developed into a sort of nervous obsession. Aunt 
Stefanie and the uncles at the Hague were old and 
their friends and acquaintances seemed to have died 
out and they moved about, without contemporaries, 
a little lonesomely in that town, along the streets 
where their houses were, to and fro, to and fro 
among one another. ... It was so forlorn and 
so very lonely; and it engendered melancholy; and 
she had always felt that melancholy in her youth. . 
. . . She had never been able to keep her girl¬ 

friends. She no longer saw the girls of the tennis- 
club; her fellow-pupils at the Academy she just 
greeted with a hurried nod when she passed them 
in the street. After her unfortunate engagement, 
she had withdrawn herself more than ever, except 
that she was always with Lot, walking with him, 
talking to him; he also was lonely at the Hague, 
with no friends: he was better off for friends, he 
said, in Italy. . . . How strange, that eternal 

loneliness and sense of extinction around both of 
them! No friends or acquaintances around them, 
as around most people, as around most families. 
It was doubtless because of the oppression of those 
two very old people; but she could not analyse 


174 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

beyond that and she felt that something escaped her 
which she did not know, but which was neverthe¬ 
less there and pressed upon her and kept other 
people away: something gloomy, now past, which 
remained hovering around the old man and the 
old woman and which enveloped the others—the 
old woman’s children, the old man’s only grand¬ 
child—in a sort of haze, something indescribable but 
so definitely palpable that she could almost have 
taken hold of it by putting out her hand. . . . 

It was all very vague and misty to think about, 
it was not even possible to think about it; it was 
a perception of something chill, that passed, nothing 
more, no more than that; but it sometimes pre¬ 
vented her breathing freely, taking pleasure in her 
youth, walking fast, speaking loud: when she did 
that, she had to force herself with an effort. And 
she knew that Lot felt the same: she had under¬ 
stood it from two or three very vague words and 
more from the spirit of those words than from 
their sound; and it had given her a great soul- 
sympathy for Lot. He was a strange fellow, she 
thought, looking at him as he slept. Outwardly and 
in his little external qualities and habits, he was a 
very young boy, a child sometimes, she thought, 
with round his childishness a mood of disillusion¬ 
ment that sometimes uttered itself quite wittily but 
did not ring sincere; beneath the exterior lay a dis¬ 
position to softness, a considerable streak of selfish¬ 
ness and a neurotic preoccupation where he was 


THINGS THAT PASS 175 

himself concerned, tempered by something that was 
almost strength of character in dealing with his 
mother, for he was the only one who could get on 
with Mamma. With this temperament he possessed 
natural gifts which he did not value, though it was 
really necessary for him to work. He presented 
a medley of contradictions, of seriousness and child¬ 
ishness, of feeling and indifference, of manliness and 
of very feeble weakness, such as she had never seen 
in any man. He was vainer of his fair hair than of 
his talent, though he was vain of this too; and a 
compliment on his tie gave him more pleasure than 
a word of praise for his finest essay. And this 
child, this boy, this man she loved: she considered 
it strange when she herself thought of it, but she 
loved him and was happy only when he was with 
her. 

He woke up, asked her why she was not sleeping 
and now took her head on his breast. Tired by 
the train and by her thoughts, she fell asleep; and 
he looked out at the grey dawn, which broke over 
the bleak and chilly fields after they had passed 
Lyons. He yearned for sea, for blue sky, for heat, 
for everything that was young and alive: the South 
of France, the Riviera and then Italy, with Elly. 
He had disposed of his life and he hoped for happi¬ 
ness, happiness in companionship of thought and 
being, because loneliness induces melancholy and 
makes us think the more intensely of our slow 
decay. . . . 


176 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

“ She is very charming,’’ he thought, as he looked 
down upon her where she slept on his breast; and 
he resisted the impulse to kiss her now that she 
had just fallen asleep. “ She is very charming and 
she has a delicate artistic sense. I must tell her 
to start modelling again . . . or to write some¬ 

thing: she’s good at both. That was a very fine 
little book of hers, even though it is so very sub¬ 
jective and a great deal too feminine. There is 
much that is good in life, even though life is nothing 
but a transition which can’t signify much in a world 
that’s rotten. There must be other lives and other 
worlds. A time must come when there will be no 
material suffering, at most a spiritual suffering. 
Then all our material anxieties will be gone. . . . 
And yet there is a great charm about this material 
life . . . if we forget all wretchedness for a 

moment. A spell of charm comes to everybody: I 
believe that mine has come. If it would only 
remain like this; but it won’t. Everything changes. 

. . . . Better not think about it, but work in¬ 

stead: better do some work, even while travelling. 
Elly would like it. At Florence, the Medicis; in 
Rome, the whole papacy. ... I don’t know which 
I shall select: it must be one of the two. But there’s 
such a lot of it, such a lot of it. . . . Could I 
write a fine history of civilization, I wonder? . . . 
I hate collecting notes: all those rubbishy odds and 
ends of paper. . . . If I can’t see the whole thing 
before me, in one clear vision, it’s no good. I can’t 


THINGS THAT PASS 


177 

study: I have to see, to feel, to admire or shudder. 
If I don’t do that. I’m no good. An essay is what 
I’m best at. A word is a butterfly: you just catch it, 
lightly, by the wings . . . and let it fly away 

again. . . . Serious books on history and art are 

like fat beetles, crawling along. . . . Tiensl 

That’s not a bad conceit. I must use it one day in 
an article: the butterfly wafted on the air . . . 

and the heavy beetle. . . . ” 

They were approaching Marseilles; they would 
be at Nice by two o’clock in the afternoon. ..j [.j ..i 


CHAPTER XV 


Lot had ordered a bedroom in the Hotel de Luxem¬ 
bourg and had written to his sister Ottilie. On 
arriving, they found a basket of red roses awaiting 
them in their room. It was October; the windows 
were open; and the sea shone with a dark metallic 
gleam in a violent flood of sunlight and rippled 
under the insolent forward thrusts of a gathering 
mistral. 

They had a bath, lunched in their bedroom, feel¬ 
ing a little tired after the journey; and the scent 
of the roses, the brightness of the sun, the deepen¬ 
ing turquoise of the sky and the more and more 
foam-flecked steel of the sea intoxicated both of 
them. The salad of tomatoes and capsicums made 
a red-and-orange patch around the chicken on the 
table; and long pearls seemed to melt in their glasses 
of champagne. The wind rose in mighty gusts and 
with its arrogant, brutal, male caresses swept away 
any haze that still hung around. The glowing sun 
poured forth its flood as from a golden spout in the 
turquoise sky. 

They sat side by side, intoxicated with it all, and 
ate and drank but did not speak. A sense of peace 
permeated them, accompanied by a certain slack¬ 
ness, as though in surrender to the forces of life, 
178 


THINGS THAT PASS 179 

which were so turbulent and so violent and so radi¬ 
antly gold and insolently red. 

There was a knock; and a woman’s head, crowned 
with a large black hat, appeared through the open 
door: 

“ May I come in? ” 

“ Ottilie! ” cried Lot, springing up. “ Come in, 
come in! ” 

She entered: 

“Welcome! Welcome to Nice! I haven’t seen 
you for ages. Lot! Elly, my sister, welcome! . . . 
Yes, I sent the roses. I’m glad you wrote to me 
. . and that you are willing to see me and 

that your wife is too. . . .” 

She sat down, accepted a glass of champagne; 
cordial greetings passed between Lot and his sister. 
Ottilie was a couple of years older than Lot; she 
was Mamma’s eldest child and resembled both her 
father, Pauws, and Mamma, for she was tall, with 
her father’s masterful ways, but had Mamma’s 
features, her clear profile and delicate chin, though 
not her eyes. But her many years of public appear¬ 
ances had given her movements a graceful assur¬ 
ance, that of a talented and beautiful woman, 
accustomed to being looked at and applauded, some¬ 
thing quite different from any sort of ordinary, 
domestic attractiveness: the harmonious, almost 
sculptural gestures, after being somewhat studied 
at first, had in course of time become natural. . . . 

“What a good-looking woman!’’ thought Elly; 


i8o OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

and she felt herself to be nobody, small, insignificant, 
in the simple wrap which she had put on hurriedly 
after her bath. 

Ottilie, who was forty-one, looked no more than 
thirty and had the youthfulness of an artist who 
keeps her body young by means of an art and science 
of beauty unknown to the ordinary woman. A 
white-cloth gown, which avoided the last extrava¬ 
gances of fashion, gave her figure the perfection 
of a statue and revealed the natural outlines of 
arms and bosom beneath the modern dress. The 
great black hat circled its black ostrich-feather 
around her copper-glowing fair hair, which was 
plaited in a heavy coil; a wide grey boa hung in a 
light cloud of ostrich-feathers around her; and, in 
those colourless tints—white, black and grey—she 
remained, notwithstanding her almost too great 
beauty, attractive at once as a well-bred woman and 
an artist. 

“ Well, that’s my sister, Elly! ” said Lot, proudly. 
“ What do you think of her? ” 

“ Eve seen you before, Elly, at the Hague,” said 
Ottilie. 

“ I don’t remember, Ottilie.” 

“ No, you were a little girl of eight, or nine per¬ 
haps; and you had a big playroom at Grandpapa 
Takma’s and a lovely doll’s-house. ...” 

“ So I did.” 

“ I haven’t been to the Hague since.” 

“ You went to the Conservatoire at Liege?” 


THINGS THAT PASS i8i 

“ Yes.’» 

“When did you sing last?” asked Lot. 

“ In Paris not long ago.” 

“We hear nothing of you. You never sing in 
Holland.” 

“ No, I don’t ever go to Holland.” 

“Why not, Ottilie?” asked Elly. 

“ I have always felt depressed in Holland.” 

“ Because of the country or the people?” 

“Because of everything: the country, the 
people, the houses . . . the family . , . our 

circle. ...” 

“ I quite understand,” said Lot. 

“ I couldn’t breathe,” said Ottilie. “ It’s not 
that I want to run the country down, or the people 
or the family. It all has its good side. But, just 
as the grey skies hindered me from breathing, so 
the houses hindered me from producing my voice 
properly; and there was something around me, I 
don’t know what, that struck me as terrible.” 

“Something that struck you as terrible?” said 
Elly. 

“ Yes, an atmosphere of sorts. At home, I could 
never get on with Mamma, any more than Papa 
and Mamma could ever get on together. Mamma’s 
impossible little babyish character, with her little 
fits of temper, used to drive me wild. Lot has a 
more accommodating nature than I! . . .” 

“ You ought to have been a boy and I a girl,” 
said Lot, almost bitterly. 


i 82 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


Mais je suis tres femme, moi/^ said Ottilie. 

Her eyes grew soft and filmy and happiness 
lurked in her smile. 

Mats je te crotsf^ replied Lot. 

“ No,” continued Ottilie, “ I couldn’t hit it off 
with Mamma. Besides, I felt that I must be free. 
After all, there was life. I felt my voice inside 
me. I studied hard and seriously, for years on 
end. And I made a success. All my life is given 
to singing. . . .” 

“ Why do you only sing at concerts, Ottilie ? 
Don’t you care about opera? You sing Wagner, I 
know.” 

“ Yes, but I can’t lose myself in a part for more 
than a few moments, not for more than a single 
scene, not for a whole evening.” 

“ Yes, I can imagine that,” said Lot. 

“ Yes,” said Elly, with quick understanding, 
“ you’re a sister of Lot’s in that. He can’t work 
either for longer than his essay or his article lasts.” 

“ A family weakness, Ottilie,” said Lot. 
“ Inherited.” 

Ottilie reflected, with a smile: the Gioconda smile, 
Elly thought. 

“ That may be true,” said (>ttilie. “ It was a 
shrewd observation of your little Elly’s.” 

“ Yes,” said Lot, proudly. “ She’s very observ¬ 
ant. Not one of our three natures is what you 
would call commonplace.” 

“Ah,” murmured Ottilie, “Holland . • . 


THINGS THAT PASS 183 

those houses . . . those people! > . i. Mamma 
and ‘ Mr.’ Trevelley at home: it was terrible. One 
scene after the other. Trevelley reproaching 
Mamma with Papa, Mamma reproaching Trevelley 
with a hundred infidelities! Mamma was jealousy 
incarnate. She used to keep her hat and cloak 
hanging in the hall. If ‘ Mr.’ Trevelley went out, 
Mamma would say, ‘ Hugh, where are you going? ’ 

‘ Doesn’t matter to you,’ said Trevelley. ‘ I’m com¬ 
ing with you,’ said Mamma, putting on her hat all 
askew and flinging on her cloak; and go with him she 
did. Trevelley cursed and swore; there was a scene; 
but Mamma went with him: he walking along the 
street two yards in front of her. Mamma following, 
mad with rage. . . . She was very, very pretty 

in those days, a little doll, with a fair-haired 
Madonna face, but badly dressed. . . . Lot was 
always quiet, with calm, tired-looking eyes: how 
well I remember it all! He was never out of 
temper, always polite to ‘Mr.’ Travelley. . . .” 

“ I have managed to get on with all my three 
papas.” 

“ When Mamma and Trevelley had had enough 
of each other and Mamma fell in love with Steyn, 
I cleared out. I went first to Papa and then to the 
Conservatoire. And I haven’t been back in Holland 
since. . . . Oh, those houses! . . . Your 

house, Elly—Grandpapa Takma’s house—every¬ 
thing very neatly kept by Aunt Ad^e, but it seemed 
to me as if something stood waiting behind every 


184 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

door. . . . Grandmamma’s house and Grand¬ 

mamma’s figure, as she sat at the window there 
staring . . . and waiting, she too. Waiting what 
for? I don’t know. But it did depress me so. I 
longed for air, for blue sky, for freedom; I had 
to expand my lungs.” 

“ I have felt like that too sometimes,” said Lot, 
half to himself. 

Elly said nothing, but she thought of her child¬ 
hood, spent with the old man, and of her doll’s- 
house, which she ruled so very seriously, as if it 
had been a little world. 

“Yes, Lot,” said Ottilie, “you felt it too: you 
went off to Italy to breathe again, to live, to live. 

. . . In our family, they had lived. Mamma 

still lived, but her own past clung to her. . . . 

I don’t know, Elly; I don’t think I’m very sensitive; 
and yet . . . and yet I did feel it so: an oppress¬ 
ion of things of the past all over one. I couldn’t 
go on like that. I longed for my own life.” 

“ That’s true,” said Lot, “ you released yourself 
altogether. More so than I did. I was never able 
to leave Mamma for good. I’m fond of her. I 
don’t know why: she has not been much of a mother 
to me. Still I’m fond of her, I often feel sorry 
for her. She is a child, a spoilt child. She was 
overwhelmed, in her youth, with one long adora¬ 
tion. The men were mad on her. Now she is old 
and what has she left? Nothing and nobody. Steyn 
and she lead a cat-and-dog life. I pity Steyn, but 


THINGS THAT PASS 185 

I sometimes feel for Mamma. It’s a dreadful thing 
to grow old, especially for the sort of woman that 
she was, a woman—one may as well speak plainly 
—who lived for her passions. Mamma has never 
had anything in her but love. She is an elementary 
woman; she needs love and caresses, so much so 
that she has not been able to observe the conven¬ 
tions. She respected them only to a certain point. 
When she fell in love, everything else went by the 
board.” 

“ But why did she marry ? / didn’t marry! And 
I am in love too.” 

“ Ottilie, Mamma lived in a different social 
period. People used to marry then. They marry 
still, for the most part. Elly and I got married.” 

“ I have nothing to say against it, if you know 
that you have found each other for life. Did 
Mamma know that with any of her husbands? She 
was mad on all the three of them.” 

“ She now hates them all.” 

“ Therefore she ought not to have married.” 

“ No, but she lived in a different social period. 
And, as I say, Ottilie, people still get married.” 

“ You disapprove of my not marrying.” 

“ I don’t disapprove. It’s not my nature to 
disapprove of what other people think best in their 
own judgment.” 

“ Let us talk openly and frankly. You call 
Mamma a woman who lives for her passions. Per¬ 
haps you call me the same.” 


i86 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

“ I don’t know much about your life.” 

“ I have lived with men. If I had had Mamma’s 
ideas, or rather her unconscious conventions, I 
should have married them. I loved and was loved. 
Twice I could have married, as Mamma did; but 
I didn’t do it.” 

“ You were disheartened by what you had 
seen.” 

“ Yes; and I didn’t know, I never knew. Perhaps 
now. Lot, perhaps now I feel certain for the first 
time.” 

“ Do you feel certain, Ottilie?” said Elly. 

She took Ottilie’s hand. She thought Ottilie so 
beautiful, so very beautiful and so genuine that she 
was greatly affected by her. 

“ Perhaps, Elly, I now know for certain that I 
shall never love any one else as I love Aldo. . . • 
He loves me . . .” 

“And you will get married?” asked Lot. 

“ No, we shall not get married.” 

“Why not? ...” 

“ Is he certain? ” 

“ But you say he’s fond of you.” 

“ Yes, but is he certain? No, he is not. We are 
happy together, ever so happy. He wants to marry 
me. But is he certain? No, he is not. He is not 
certain: I know for certain that he does not know 
for certain. . . . Why should we bind ourselves 
with legal ties? If I have a child by him, I shall 
be very happy and shall be a good mother to my 


THINGS THAT PASS 


187 

child. But why those legal ties? . . . Aldo isn’t 
certain, happy though he may be. He is two years 
older than I. Who knows what may be waiting 
for him to-morrow, what emotion, what passion, 
what love? ... I myself know that I have 
found, but I know that he does not know. . . . 

If he leaves me to-morrow, he is free. Then he 
can find another happiness, perhaps the lasting one. 
. . . What do we poor creatures know? . . . 

We seek and seek until suddenly we find certainty. 
I have found it. But he has not. . . . No, Lot, 
we shall not get married. I want Aldo to be free 
and to do as he pleases. I am no longer young and 
I want to leave him free. Our love, our bodies, our 
souls are free, absolutely free, in our happiness. 
And, if I am old to-morrow, an old woman, with 
no voice left . . 

“ Then you will pay the penalty, Ottilie,” said 
Lot. 

“ Then I shall pay no penalty. Lot. Then I shall 
have been happy. Then I shall have had my por¬ 
tion. I don’t ask for eternity here below. I shall 
be satisfied and I shall grow old, quietly, quietly 

old. ...” 

“ Oh, Ottilie, and / . . . I suffer from growing 
old, from growing older.” 

“ Lot, that’s a disease. You’re happy now, you 
have Elly, life is beautiful, there is sunshine, there 
is happiness. Take all that, enjoy it and be happy 
and don’t think of what is to come.” 


i88 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

“ Don’t you then ever think of growing old and 
of the horror of it? ” 

“ I do think of growing old, but I don’t see any¬ 
thing horrible in it.” 

“If Aldo were to leave you to-morrow, you 
would be alone . . . and you would grow old.” 

“ If Aldo left me to-morrow, for his own happi¬ 
ness, I should think it right and I should grow old, 
but I should not be alone, for I should have all 
my memories of his love and of our happiness, 
which is actual now and so real that there can be 
nothing else after it.” 

She got up. 

“ Are you going? ” 

“ I have to. Come and lunch with us to-morrow. 
Will you come, Elly? ” 

“ Thanks, Ottilie.” 

Ottilie looked out of the window. The sun 
beamed as it died away, from behind mauve and 
rose clouds, and the wind had subsided on the 
waves: the sea just rocked It softly on her rolling, 
deep-blue bosom, like a gigantic lover who lay rest¬ 
ing In her lap after his spell of blazing ardour. 

“ How splendid those clouds are! ” said Elly. 
“ The wind has gone down.” 

“ Always does, at this time,” said Ottilie. “ Look, 
Lot, there he is! ” 

“Who?” 

“ Aldo. He’s waiting for me.” 

They saw a man sitting on the Promenade des 


THINGS THAT PASS 189 

Anglais—there were not many people about—and 
looking at the sea. 

“ I can only see his back,” said Lot. 

“ You shall see him to-morrow. I’m delighted 
that you’re coming.” 

Her voice sounded grateful, as though she were 
touched. She kissed them both and went away. 

“ Heavens, what a beautiful woman! ” said Lot. 
“ She is anything but young, but years don’t count 
with a woman accustomed to appear in public and 
as handsome as she is. ...” 

Elly had gone out on the balcony: 

“ Oh, Lot, what a glorious sunset! . . . It’s 

like a fairy-picture in the sky. That’s how I imagine 
the atmosphere of the Arabian Nights. Look, it’s 
just like the tail of a gigantic phoenix vanishing be¬ 
hind the mountains in flames. . . . There’s Ottilie, 
on the promenade; she’s waving her handkerchief.” 

“ And there’s Aldo, with her, bowing. ... A 
fine good-looking fellow, that Italian officer of hers. 
. . . What a handsome couple! . . . Look, 
Elly, as they’re walking together: what a hand¬ 
some couple 1 I declare I’m jealous of him. I should 
like to be as tall as that, with such a pair of shoulders 
and such a figure.” 

“ But aren’t you content that I like you as you 
are? ” 

“ Yes, I’m quite content. I’m more than content, 
Elly. ... I believe that I have come to my 
divine moment, my moment of happiness. . . .” 


190 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

“ It will be more than a moment.’* 

“Are you certain of it?” 

“ Yes, I feel it within me . . .. jus.t as Ottilie 

felt it within her. And you?” 

He looked at her gravely and did not tell her 
that she was much younger than Ottilie, too young 
to know so much. And he merely answered: 

“ I too believe that I know for certain. But we 
must not force the future. . . . Oh, what a won¬ 

derful evening! Look at those mountains beginning 
to turn violet. . . . The fairy-picture is changing 
every moment. The sea is rocking the wind in 
her lap and the phoenix is dying away in ashes. 
Let’s stay here, let’s stay and look. There are the 
first stars. It’s as though the sea were becoming 
very calm and the wind sleeping peacefully on her 
blue breast. You can just feel its breath still, but 
it’s asleep. . . . This is the land of life and 

love. We are too early for the season; but what 
do we care for smart people? . . . This is gor¬ 

geous, Elly, this wealth of life, of love, of living 
colour, fading away so purple in the darkness of 
the night. The cool breath of that mighty wind, 
which is now asleep: how very different from the 
howling wind of our north, which whistles so 
dismally! This mad merry wind here, now sleep¬ 
ing, like a giant, in the blue lap of that giantess, 
the seal That’s freedom, life, love and glory and 
pomp and gaiety. Oh, I’m not running down my 
country; but I do feel once more, after all these 


THINGS THAT PASS 


191 

months, that I can breathe freely and that there’s 
a glow in life . . . and youth, youth, youth! 

It makes you feel drunk at first, but Pm already 
getting used to the intoxication. . . 

They remained on the balcony. When the wind 
woke in the lap of the sea and got up again, with 
an unexpected leap of its giant gaiety, blowing the 
first stars clear of the last purple clouds with a 
single sweep, they went inside, with their arms 
around each other’s waist. 

Over the joyously-quivering sea the fierce mistral 
came rushing. 


CHAPTER XVI 


The garden was reached from the flat by a little 
terrace and two or three steps. 

“ You are too early to see it in its winter glory,” 
said Ottilie. “ You’re much too early. Nature 
here sleeps all through the summer under the 
scorching sun.” 

“ That’s one long, long love-sleep,” said Lot, 
with his arm in his sister’s. 

“ Yes, one long love-sleep,” Ottilie echoed. “ At 
the beginning of the autumn, the heavy rains come. 
They may overcome us yet, suddenly. When they 
are past, then nature buds for the winter. That is 
so exquisite here. When, everywhere up in the 
north, there’s not a leaf or flower to be seen, the 
ground here is dug up, grass is sown and the mimosa 
blossoms and the carnations and you get your 
violets. You’re too early, but you can see one 
phase of the change. Look at my last summer 
roses, blooming in such mad, jolly disorder. And 
the heliotrope, delicious, eh? Yes, this one is still 
glorious. Look at my pears: did you ever see such 
big ones? How many are there? Three, four, 
five . . . six. We’ll pluck them; they’re quite 

ripe: if they fall to the ground, the ants eat them 

192 


THINGS THAT PASS 


193 

in a moment. . . . Aldo! Aldo! Come here 

for a second. . . . Pluck a few pears, will you? 

I can’t reach them, no more can Lot . . . Elly, 

have you seen my grapes? Just look at my trellis- 
work of vines? It might be a pergola, mightn’t it? 
And they’re those raspberry-grapes, you know; you 
must taste them. Try this bunch: they’re delicious. 
. . . We’ll eat the pears presently, at lunch. 

They’re like sweet, aromatic snow. . . . Here 
are figs for you: this is an old tree, but it still 
stands as a symbol of fruitfulness. Pick them for 
yourself, take as many as you like. . . . Here 
are my peaches. . . . How hot the sun is still! 

And everything’s steaming: I love all that natural 
perfume. Those grapes sometimes drive me 
mad. . . .” 

She thrust a white arm out of the sleeve of her 
white gown among the hazy-blue bunches and 
picked and picked, more and more. It was a feast 
of gluttony, an orgy of grapes. Aldo picked the 
finest for Elly. Well past forty, in the tranquil 
calmness of his graceful strength he was plainly a 
man of warm passion, a southern man of passion, 
a tranquil, smiling and yet passionate nature. As 
he drew himself up lissomely, in his loose-fitting 
grey-flannel suit, and stretched his hands towards 
the highest bunches, the harmonious lines of his 
statuesquely handsome figure appeared sinewy and 
supple; and there was this contradiction in him, that 
he suggested a piece of classic sculpture in the cos- 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


194 

tume of to-day. The smiling serenity of his regular, 
large-boned face also reminded Lot of busts which 
he had seen in Italy: the Hermes of the Vatican— 
no, Aldo was not so intelligent as that—the 
'Antinous of the Capitol, but a manlier brother; 
the Wrestlers of the Braccio Nuovo, only not so 
young and more powerfully built. . . . Aldo’s 

smile answered to Ottilie’s smile and contained the 
tranquillity of a secure happiness, of an intense 
moment of perfect human bliss. That moment was 
there, even if it were passing. That secure happi¬ 
ness was as the pressed bunch of grapes. . . . 

Lot felt that he was living his own ecstatic mo¬ 
ment, felt that he was happy in Elly, but yet he 
experienced a certain jealousy because of the 
physical happiness in that very good-looking couple: 
there was something so primitive in it, something 
almost classical in this southern autumnal nature, 
among this superabundance of bursting fruits; and 
he knew for certain that he would never approach 
such happiness, physically, because he felt the north 
in his soul, however eagerly his soul might try to 
escape that north; because he felt the dread of the 
years that were to come; because his love for Elly 
was so very much one of sympathy and tempera¬ 
ment; because his nature was lacking in vigorous 
sensuality. And it made him feel the want of 
something; and because of that want he was jealous, 
with all the jealousy which he had inherited from 
his mother. . . . They too, Aldo and Ottilie, 


THINGS THAT PASS 


195 

felt no morbid melancholy, no sickly dread; and 
yet their happiness, however superabundant, had 
the sere tint of autumn, like all the nature around 
them. The glowing-copper leaves of the plane- 
trees blew suddenly over the vine-trellis, scattered 
by the rough, brusque hands of the gaily-gathering 
wind. A shudder passed through the disordered 
rose-bushes; a heavy-ripe pear fell to the ground. 
It was autumn; and neither Aldo nor Ottilie was 
young, really young. And yet they had found this; 
and who could tell what they had found before, 
each on a different path! Oh, that untrammelled 
happiness, that moment! . . . Oh, how Lot felt 

his jealousy! . . . Oh, how he longed to be like 

Aldo, so tall, so vigorous, handsome as a classical 
statue, so natural, a classical soul! . . . To feel 
his blood rush madly through his veins! . . . Oh, 
that north, which froze something inside him; that 
powerlessness to seize the moment with a virile 
hand; and the dread, the dread of what was to 
come: that horror of old age, while after all he 
was still young! . . . He now looked at his wife; 
and suddenly his soul became quite peaceful. He 
loved her. Silent inward melancholy, dread: those 
were his portion; they couldn’t be helped; they must 
be accepted with resignation. The headiness of 
rapture could overwhelm him for a, moment: it 
was not the true sphere of his happiness. It would 
intoxicate him: his blood was not rich enough for 
it. He loved, in so far as he was able; he was 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


196 

happy, in so far as he could be. It was that, after 
all: he had found what he wanted, he wished to be 
grateful. A tenderness for Elly flowed through him 
so intensely: he felt that his soul was the sister-soul 
to hers. Superabundance was not for him; and the 
pressure of the things that passed had always 
weighed upon him and always hindered him from 
flinging his two arms riotously round life. . . . 

He threw away the stalk of his bunch of grapes 
and followed Aldo, who was calling to him, indoors. 
The Italian took his arm with a movement of 
sympathy: 

“ Ottilie’s going to sing,” he said. “ Your wife 
has asked her to.” 

His French had the sensual softness of his too 
southern accent. 

Ottilie was already singing, to her own accom¬ 
paniment, in the drawing-room. Her rich voice, 
schooled to the spaciousness of large halls, swelled 
to a pure stream of sound, made the air quiver even 
in the garden with notes heavy with happiness. It 
was an Italian song, by a composer whom Lot did 
not know; and it provided an illusion as though 
Ottilie were improvising the song at the moment. 
There was a single phrase, which opened softly, 
rippled with laughter and melted away swooning, 
like a nymph in a faun’s arms. 

“ Another time, perhaps I’ll sing you something 
serious,” said Ottilie. “This is only a single cry: 
a cry of life, nothing more. . . 


THINGS THAT PASS 


197 

They sat down to lunch. The sun, which had 
scorched them, the wind, which had covered them 
with rough kisses, had given them an appetite; and 
the saffron bouillabaisse stimulated their palates 
lustily. On the side-board the fruit lay heaped in 
large, plain baskets and represented autumn’s lavish 
abundance indoors as well. 

‘‘ Lot,” said Elly, suddenly, “ I don’t know what 
it is, but I suddenly feel the south.” 

“We poor northerners!” said Lot. “ Ottilie 
and Aldo: they feel the south.” 

“ But so do I! ” said Elly. 

“ Nice is a novitiate for you, Elly, before you 
get to Italy! ” said Ottilie. “ Do you actually feel 
the south here? In the air?” 

“ Yes, in the air . . . and in myself, in 
myself. . . .” 

“ Well, we have tropical blood in us,” said 
Ottilie. “ Why shouldn’t we feel the south at once? 
Aldo could never feel the north: he went to Stock¬ 
holm with me when I was singing there.” 

“Didn’t you feel the north, in the air?” asked 
Lot. 

*^Sicuro!^* said Aldo. “I found it cold and 
bleak, but then it was winter. I felt no more in 
it than that. You northerners feel things more 
sensitively. We feel perhaps . . . more brutally 
and fully. We have redder blood. You have the 
gift of feeling nuances. We haven’t. When I feel, 
I feel entirely. When Ottilie feels a thing now, 


198 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

she also feels it like that. But she was not 
always so.” 

“ Aldo is making a southerner of me! ” said 
Ottilie. “ He is wiping out all my nuances! ” 

Outside, the mistral rose and raged in a whirl 
of glowing-copper plane-leaves. 

“ That’s autumn,” said Ottilie. 

“ Turning into winter,” said Lot. 

“ But winter here is life again, renewed. Life is 
renewed daily. Every day that comes is new 
life.” 

“So no dying, but everlasting resurrection?” 
asked Lot, with a smile. 

“ No dying, everlasting resurrection! ” 

Her voice rang out defiantly. Oh, to embrace the 
moment . . . with virile strength! It was not 

for him, thought Lot. But what there was was 
tender happiness. If only it remained sol If only 
he were not left behind, lonely, alone and old, now 
that he had known tender happiness! . . . He 

looked at his wife. The topaz-coloured wine sent 
a sparkle to her eyes and a flush over her usual 
pallor; she was joking with Aldo and Ottilie, was 
gayer than Lot had ever seen her; she became almost 
pretty and began boldly to talk Italian to Aldo, 
spinning out whole sentences which he corrected 
with his quiet laugh. 

“ Who knows,” thought Lot, “ what she may yet 
feel? She is twenty-three. She is very fond of me; 
and, before she came to love me, she had known 


THINGS THAT PASS 


199 

sorrow, because of another love. Who can tell 
what the years may bring? Oh, but this is a divine 
moment, these days are perhaps forming the most 
heavenly moment of my life! Let me never forget 
them. . . . I am happy, so far as I can be happy. 
And Elly must be feeling happy too. . . . She is 
breathing again. . . . It is as though an oppress¬ 
ion had gone over her and as though she were 
breathing again. She lived too long with the old 
man. The past is an oppression in his house. It is 
an oppression at Grandmamma’s. It is an oppress¬ 
ion even with us, at home, because of Mamma 
. . Life does not renew itself there. It dies 

away, it passes; and the melancholy of it depresses 
even us, the young people. . . . Oh, Elly will 

not be really happy until she is in Italy! . . . 

This is only an intoxication, delicious, but too full 
and brutal for our senses; and there . . . there, 

when we are working together, we shall find glad 
happiness: I know it! Glad happiness in a country 
not so sensual as Nice, but more intelligent and 
dusted exquisitely with the bloom of the dead past. 

. . . Yes, we shall be in harmony there and happy 
and we shall work together. . . . ” 

Aldo was opening the champagne; and Lot 
whispered: 

“Elly!” 

“What?” 

“ You felt the south just now? ” 

“ Yes .. . . oh, Lot, beyond a doubt!” 


200 


THINGS THAT PASS 


“ Well, I . . . / feel happiness! ’’ 

She squeezed his hand; a smile played around her 
lips. She also would never forget this moment of 
her life, whatever else those future years might 
bring: with her northern soul of sadness, she felt 
the south and her happiness . . . and what passed 
they did not see. . . .. 


CHAPTER XVII 


There was a cold wind, with whirling snowflakes, 
and Aunt Stefanie de Laders had not at first 
intended to go out: she had a cough and lately 
had not been feeling at all the thing; she feared 
that this winter would be her last. Not every¬ 
body lived to be so old as Mamma or Mr. Takma; 
and she, after all, was seventy-seven: wasn’t 
that a fine age? But she did not want to die 
yet, for she had always been very much afraid 
of death, always carried a horrid vision of Hell 
before her eyes: you could never know what awaited 
you, however good and religious you might have 
been, serving God properly. Now she, thank God, 
had nothing to reproach herself with! Her life had 
gone on calmly, day after day, without a husband, 
or children, or mundane ties, but also without any 
great sorrow. Twice she had suffered the loss of 
a tom-cat to which she was attached; and she 
thought it very sad when the birds in the cages 
grew old and lost their feathers and sometimes 
gripped on to their perches with their long claws, 
for years together, until one fine morning she found 
their little bodies stiff. She thought it sad that 
the family had no religion—the De Laders had 


201 


202 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


always had religion—and she felt very sad when 
Therese, in Paris, became a Catholic, for after all 
papistry was idolatry, that she knew for certain; 
and she also knew for certain that Calvin had had 
the root of the matter in him. She had always been 
able to save money and did not quite know how to 
dispose of it: she had executed a number of different 
wills, making bequests and then rescinding them; 
she would leave a good deal to charitable institu¬ 
tions. Her health for very long had been exceed¬ 
ingly good. Short, sprightly and withered, she had 
been very active, had for years run along the streets 
like a lapwing. Her witch-face became brown and 
tanned and wrinkled, small and wizened; and her 
little figure, with the shrunk breasts, bore no 
resemblance whatever to the even yet majestic old 
age of old, old Mamma. The barren field of her 
life, without emotion, love or passion, had grown 
drier and drier around her carping egoism, without 
arousing in her a sense of either melancholy or loss. 
On the contrary, she had felt glad that she was 
able to fear God, that she had had time to make 
her own soul and that she had not heard the sins 
of the body speak aloud, in between the murmured 
reading of her pious books and the shrill twittering 
of her birds. Lucky that she had never been hysteri¬ 
cal, like those Derckszes, she thought contentedly, 
preferring with a certain filial reverence to put down 
that hysteria rather to the Derckszes’ account than 
to that of her old mother, though nevertheless she 


THINGS THAT PASS 203 

shook her head over Mamma for thinking so little, 
at her age, of Heaven and Hell and for continuing 
to see old Takma, doubtless In memory of former 
sinfulness. Anton was a dirty old blackguard and, 
old as he was, had narrowly escaped most unpleasant 
consequences, a month ago, for allowing himself to 
take liberties with his laundress’ little girl; and Aunt, 
who saw a great deal of Ina, knew that it was owing 
to D’Herbourg’s influence and intervention—he 
being the only one of the family who had any 
connections—that the business had no Ill results, 
that it was more or less hushed up. But Aunt 
Stefanie thought It so sinful and hysterical of Anton, 
looked upon Anton as so irretrievably sold to Satan 
that she would have preferred to have nothing more 
to do with him . . . if it were not that he had 

some money and that she feared lest he should 
leave the money to sinful things and people . . . 

whereas Ina could do with it so well. And she now, 
in spite of the weather, thought of sending for a 
cab and going out: then she could first pick up 
Anton, as arranged, and take him with her to the 
Van Welys, Lily and Frits, to see their godchildren, 
Stefje and Antoinetje. There were two babies 
now; and she and Anton had a godchild apiece. A 
tenderness flowed through her selfish old-maid’s 
heart at the thought of those children, who belonged 
to her just a little—for she tyrannized over Anton’s 
godchild too—and in whom, she reflected con¬ 
tentedly, she had not the least sinful share. For she 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


204 

considered the things of the flesh more or less sinful, 
even when hallowed by matrimony. 

The cab came; and Aunt Stefanie, in a very old 
fur cloak, hoisted herself in, sprightlily, climbed up 
the step and felt anything but well. Was it 
coming at last? Was she about to fall ill and 
die? Oh, if she could only be sure of going to 
Heaven! So long as she was not sure of it, she 
would rather go on living, rather grow as old as 
Mother and Takma, rather live to be a hundred. 
The cab was now pulling up in front of the ground- 
floor rooms in which Anton lived; and she thought, 
should she wait till he came out or should she get 
out herself for a minute? She resolved upon the 
latter course and, when the door was opened by 
the landlady, she clambered down the step of the 
cab again, refusing the driver’s assistance, and, with 
a few snowflakes on her old-lady’s cape and old fur 
cloak, went in to her brother, who was sitting beside 
a closed stove, with his book and his pipe. A thick 
haze of smoke filled the room, drifting heavily with 
slow, horizontal cloud-lines. 

“Well, Anton, you’re expecting me, aren’t you?^ 
It wouldn’t be the thing if you weren’t 1 ” said Aunt 
Stefanie, in a tone of reproach. 

Trippingly and imperiously, she went up to him. 
Her voice sounded shrill and her little witch-face 
shook and shivered out of the worn fur collar of 
her cloak, because she felt cold. 

“ Yes, all right,” said Anton Dercksz, but with- 


THINGS THAT PASS 205 

out getting up. “ You’ll sit down first, won’t you, 
Stefanie ? ” 

“ But the cab’s waiting, Anton; it means throw¬ 
ing money away for nothing! ” 

“ Well, that won’t ruin you. Is it really neces¬ 
sary that we should go and look at those brats ? ” 

“ You must see your godchild, surely. That’s 
only proper. And then we’re going on, with Ina 
and Lily, to Daan and Floor, at their hotel.” 

“ Yes, I know, they arrived yesterday. . . . 

Look here, Stefanie, I can’t understand why you 
don’t leave me here in peace. You always 
want to boss people. I’m comfortable here, 
reading. . . .” 

The warmth of the stove gave old Stefanie de 
Laders a blissful feeling; she held her numbed feet 
—^Anton possessed no foot-stove—voluptuously to 
the glow; but the smoke of the pipe made her cough. 

“ Yes, yes, you’re just sitting reading; I read too, 
but I read better books than you. . . . Let me 

see what you’re reading, Anton. What is it? 
Latin?” 

“ Yes, it’s Latin.” 

“ I never knew that you read Latin.” 

“ You don’t know everything about me yet.” 

“No, thank God!” cried Stefanie, indignantly. 
“And what is that Latin book?” she asked, curi¬ 
ously and inquisitorially. 

“ It’s sinful,” said Anton, teasingly. 

“ I thought as much. What’s it called?. ” 


2o6 old people and THE 

“It’s Suetonius: The Lives of the CaesarsJ* 

“ So you’re absorbed in the lives of those brutes, 
who tortured the early Christians! ” 

He grinned, with a broad grin. He sat there, 
big and heavy; and the folds and dewlaps of his 
full, yellow-red cheeks thrilled with pleasure at her 
outburst; the ends of his grey-yellow moustache 
stood straight up with merriment; and his eyes with 
their yellow irises gazed pensively at his sister, who 
had never been of the flesh. What hadn’t she 
missed, thought Anton, in scoffing contempt, as he 
sat bending forwards. His coarse-fisted hands lay 
like clods on his thick knees; and the tops of his 
Wellington boots showed round under the trouser- 
legs. His waistcoat was undone; so were the two 
top buttons of his trousers; and Stefanie could just 
see his braces. 

“ You know more about history than I thought,” 
he grinned. 

She thought him repulsive and looked nervously 
round the room, which contained a number of open 
book-cases, with the curtains drawn back: 

“Have you read all those books?” she asked. 

“ And read them over again. I do nothing else.” 

Stefanie de Laders was coughing more and more. 
Her feet were warm by this time. She was proof 
against much, but she felt as if she would faint with 
the smoke. 

“ Sha’n’t we go now, Anton?” 

He was not in the least inclined to go. He was 


THINGS THAT PASS 


207 

greatly interested in Suetonius at the moment; and 
she had disturbed him in his fantasy, which was 
intense in him. But she had such a way of nagging 
insistency; and he was really a weak man. 

“ I must just wash my hands.” 

“ Yes, do, for you reek of that pipe of yours.” 

He grinned, got up and, without hurrying him¬ 
self, went to his bedroom. Nobody knew of his 
solitary fantasies, which became more intense as he 
grew older and more impotent in his sensuality; 
nobody knew of the lust of his imagination nor 
how, as he read Suetonius, he pictured how he had 
once, in a century long past, been Tiberius, how he 
had held the most furious orgies in gloomy solitude 
at Capri and committed murder in voluptuousness 
and sent the victims of his passions dashing into the 
sea from the rocks and surrounded himself with 
a bevy of children beautiful as Cupids. The hidden 
forces of his intellect and imagination, which he had 
always enjoyed secretly, with a certain shyness 
towards the outside world, had caused him to read 
and study deeply in his younger years; and he knew 
more than any one talking to him would ever 
have suspected. On his shelves, behind novels and 
statute-books, he concealed works on the Kabbala 
and Satanism, being especially attracted in his 
morbid fancies by the strange mysteries of antiquity 
and the middle ages and endowed with a powerful 
gift of thinking himself back into former times, into 
a former life, into historic souls to which he felt 


208 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

himself related, in which he incarnated himself. 
No one suspected it: people merely knew that he 
had been a mediocre official, that he read, that he 
smoked and that he had occasionally done shameful 
things. For the rest, his secret was his own; and 
that he often guessed at another’s secret was a thing 
which not his mother nor Takma nor anybody would 
ever have suspected. . . . 

The moment he had gone to his bedroom, Aunt 
Stefanie rose, tripped to the bookshelves and let her 
eyes move swiftly along the titles. What a lot of 
books Anton had! Look at that whole shelf of 
Latin books: was Anton as learned as that? And 
behind them: what did he keep behind those Latin 
books? Great albums and portfolios: what was 
in them? Would she have time to look? She drew 
one from behind the Latin books and, with quick, 
bird-like glances at the bedroom, opened the album, 
which had Pompeii on it. . . . What were those 
strange prints and photographs? Taken from 
statues, quite naked, from mural and ceiling fres¬ 
coes; and such queer subjects, thought Aunt 
Stefanie. What was it all, what were those things 
and people and bodies and attitudes? Were they 
merely jokes which she did not understand? . t-i 
Nevertheless they were enough to make her turn 
pale; and her wrinkled little witch-face grew longer 
and longer in dismay, while her mouth opened wide. 
She turned the pages of the album more and more 
swiftly, so as to be sure and miss nothing, and then 


THINGS THAT PASS 


209 

went back to certain plates which struck her par¬ 
ticularly. The world, so new to her, of classical 
perversion sped past her awe-struck eyes in un¬ 
divined sinfulness, represented by man and beast 
and man-beast in contortions which her imagination, 
untutored in sensuality, could never have suspected. 
A devil’s sabbath hypnotized her from out of those 
pages; and the book, weighing so heavy in her 
trembling old fingers, burnt her; but she simply 
could not slip it back into its hidden nook . . . 

just because she had never known . . . and be¬ 
cause she was very inquisitive . . . and because 

she had never suspected superlative sin. . . . 

Those were the portals of Hell; the people who had 
acted so and thought so would burn in Hell-fire for 
ever: she not, fortunately! 

“What are you doing?” 

Anton’s voice startled her; she gave a little 
scream; the book slipped from her hands. 

Must you go prying about?” asked Anton, 
roughly. 

“ Well, can’t I look at a book? ” stammered Aunt 
Stefanie. “I wasn’t doing anything improper!” 
she said, defending herself. 

He picked up the album and shoved it back 
violently behind the Latin volumes. Then, becom¬ 
ing indifferent, he grinned, with eyes like slits; 

“And what have you seen?” 

“ Nothing, nothing,” stammered Stefanie. “ You 
just came in . . and startled me so. I saw 


210 


THINGS THAT PASS 


nothing, nothing. ..j w [•: Are you ready? Shall 
we go? ” 

Buttoned up in his great-coat, he followed her 
tripping little steps; he grinned at her scornfully: 
how much she had missed! And, if she had seen 
anything, how she must have been shocked I 

“ He is the devil 1 " she thought, in her fright. 
“He is the devil! If it wasn’t for that sinful 
money, which it would be such a pity for him not 
to leave to Ina, I should drop him altogether, I 
should never wish to see him again. For he is not 
all the thing. . ” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


Ina d’Herbourg was waiting for them in the 
little house of her son-in-law and daughter, Frits 
and Lily van Wely: Frits, a callow little officer; 
Lily, a laughing, fair-haired little mother, up again 
pluckily after her confinement. There were the two 
children, Stefanus a year and Antoinetje a fort¬ 
night old; the monthly nurse, fat and pompous; 
the maid-0f-all-work busy with the little boy; the 
twelve-o’clock lunch not cleaned away yet; a bustle 
of youth and young life: one child crowing, the 
other screaming, the nurse hushing it and filling the 
whole house with her swelling figure. The maid let 
the milk catch, opened a window; there was a 
draught; and Ina cried: 

“ Jansje, what a draught you’re making! Shut 
the window, shut the window, here are Uncle and 
Aunt! . . .” 

And Jansje, who knew that Uncle Anton and 
Aunt Stefanie were godfather and godmother, flew 
to the door, leaving the milk to boil over, forgetting 
to close the window, with the result that the old 
people were received amidst a cold hurricane which 
made Aunt Stefanie, whose throat was already irri¬ 
tated by Anton’s smoke, cough still more and 
mumble: 


311 


212 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

“ It’s not the thing, a draught like this; such a 
draught! ” 

The fire which Jansje had lighted in the little 
drawing-room had gone out again; and Lily and 
Frits, wishing above all to make things pleasant for 
the old people, now brought them back again to the 
dining-room, where Jansje, in her eagerness to clear 
the table, dropped and broke a plate, whereupon 
exclamations from Jansje and reproaches from Lily 
and despairing glances of Ina at her son-in-law 
Frits. No, Lily did not get that slovenliness from 
her, for she took after the IJsselmondes and they 
were correct; Lily got it from the Derckszes. But 
Frits now understood that he must be very civil 
to LFncle Anton, whom he detested, while Lily, whom 
Uncle Anton always kissed at very great length, 
loathed him, felt sick at the sight of him, for Lily 
also had to make up to Uncle Anton, that being 
Mamma’s orders. She had married Frits without 
any money; but the young couple had very soon 
perceived that money was not to be despised; and 
the only two from whom there was a trifle to be 
expected were Aunt Stefanie and Uncle Anton. 

The old man, after being dragged there by his 
sister against his will, had recovered his good tem¬ 
per thanks to the lingering kiss which he had given 
Lily and, with his fists like clods upon his knees, sat 
chuckling and nodding in admiration when Nurse 
held up the yelling brat to him. And, though he 
was jealous of young, vigorous people, he found an 


THINGS THAT PASS 213 

emotion in his jealousy, found young, vigorous 
people pleasant to look at and considered that that 
virile little Frits, that callow, stiff little officer, might 
well make a good husband to his wife. He nodded 
at Lily and then at Frits, to convey that he under¬ 
stood them, and Lily and Frits smiled back vacu¬ 
ously. They did not understand him, but that didn’t 
matter; he guessed that they were still very much 
in love, even though they had two brats; and he 
also guessed that they were keen on his bit of money. 
Well, they were quite right from their point of view; 
only he couldn’t stand Ina, because, ever since 
D’Herbourg had helped him in his trouble with the 
little laundry-girl, she treated him with a kindly 
condescension, as the influential niece who had saved 
her imprudent uncle from that soesah.' He grinned, 
seeing through all that coaxing pretence and 
chuckling to himself that it was all wasted, because 
he had no intention of leaving them his bit of money. 
But he knew better than to let this out to Stefanie 
or any of them; on the contrary, amid all the pretty 
things that were said to him, he gloated over the 
gin-and-bitters which Frits so attentively set before 
him, after helping him off—he wasn’t feeling cold 
now, was he?—with his great-coat. He thought 
the whole farce most diverting and laughed pleas¬ 
antly and benevolently, with the air of a good, kind 
uncle who was so fond of the children, while he 
thought to himself: 

^ Malay: bother, scrape, fuss. 


214 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

“ They sha’n’t get one cent! ’’ 

And he chuckled so deliciously at the thought that 
he was quite pleased to give the fat monthly nurse 
a couple of guilders. They were all taken in—Aunt 
Stefanie, Ina and the young couple—when they saw 
Uncle behaving so good-naturedly and so gener¬ 
ously; they looked upon him as hooked; and he left 
them in the illusion, which he so cleverly saw 
through. What the devil, he thought, in a dull, 
gathering rage, did he care about those young 
people? Hadn’t they enough with their youth and 
their two vigorous bodies, that they must go 
coveting his few thousand guilders? And what did 
he care about that brat which they had christened 
Antoinette after him? He had a horror of new¬ 
born children, though he had sometimes thought 
children very nice when they were just a few years 
older. Things misted before his eyes, but he 
mastered himself in his dull rage and in his slimy 
thoughts and behaved benevolently and genially as 
the well-off uncle and godfather who was going to 
leave all his money to the brat. 

‘‘ And Uncle Daan and Aunt Floor arrived yes¬ 
terday,” said Ina d’Herbourg, with a suppressed 
sigh, for she looked upon the Indian relations as 
unpresentable. “We said we’d call on them to¬ 
gether to-day, didn’t we. Aunt Stefanie? ” 

“ That’ll save her a cab-fare,” thought Anton 
Dercksz. 


THINGS THAT PASS 215 

“ Yes,” said Lily, “ we might as well be going 
on, don’t you think so. Uncle?” 

“ Certainly, dear.” 

“ Frits’ll come on presently, won’t you, after bar¬ 
racks? I’ll just go and get on my things. I do 
think it so nice of you. Uncle Anton, to come and 
have a look at the baby. I had begun to despair of 
your ever coming, for you had promised me so 
long. ...” 

“ You see Uncle always keeps his promises, 
dear. . . .” 

He said it with the appearance of kindliness, put 
out his hand as she passed, drew her to him and, 
as though under the softening influence of the visit, 
gave her another long, lingering kiss. She shud¬ 
dered and hurried away. In the passage she met 
her husband, buckling on his sword. 

“ Don’t let that filthy old scoundrel kiss you like 
that! ” hissed Frits, furiously. 

“How can I help it? The brute makes me 
sick 1 . . . ” 

He went out, slamming the front-door, thinking 
that his young happiness was already being defiled 
because they were hard up and had to besmirch 
themselves in consequence. Ina, Uncle and Aunt 
waited in the dining-room until Lily was 
ready. 

“ Uncle Daan must be very comfortably off,” 
said Ina, with glittering eyes. “ Papa, who is bound 
to know, always refuses to talk about money and 


2i6 old people and THE 

wouldn’t say how much he thought Uncle Daan 
had. . . 

“And how much would you say it was?” asked 
Aunt Stefanie. 

“ Oh, Aunt,” said Ina, with a well-bred glance of 
her weary eyes, “ I never speak or think about money 
and I really don’t know how rich Uncle Daan is 
. . . but still I believe he is worth seven hundred 
thousand guilders. What makes them come to Hol¬ 
land so suddenly, in the winter? Business, Papa 
said; and he ought to know. But, as you know. 
Papa never says much and never talks about busi¬ 
ness or money. But Vve been wondering to myself, 
could Uncle Daan have lost all his money? And 
mark my words: if so. Papa will have him on his 
hands.” 

For Uncle Daan and Aunt Floor, who were un- 
presentably Indian, had children of their own; there 
were no expectations therefore from that quarter; 
and Ina hated them with a profound hatred and, 
jealous of their wealth, spoke as much ill of them 
as she dared. 

“ Should you say so? ” asked Aunt Stefanie. 

“ They’ve always been in business together,” said 
Ina, “ so, if Uncle Daan has lost his money. Papa 
is sure to have him on his hands.” 

“ But, if he’s worth seven hundred thousand 
guilders?” asked Anton Dercksz. 

“ Yes, in that case,” said Ina, covetously. “ But 
perhaps he hasn’t seven hundred thousand. I don’t 


THINGS THAT PASS 


217 

know. I never talk about money; and what other 
people have is le moindre de mes soucis.^^ 

Lily came down, looking the sweetest of little fair¬ 
haired women in her fur boa; and the four of them 
went to the cab, while Jansje created a fresh draught 
by opening the door too wide. 

And Ina insisted that Uncle Anton should sit in 
the front seat, beside Aunt Stefanie, and she and 
Lily with their backs to the horse, while Uncle Anton, 
with pretended gallantry, tried to resign the place 
of honour to her, though he was glad that she did 
not accept it. All that family was only a tie, which 
bound you without doing you the least good. There 
was that old bird of a Stefanie, who had dragged 
him from his reading, his warm room, his pipe, his 
Suetonius and his pleasant reverie, first to look at 
a brat to whom he wasn’t going to leave a cent and 
next to call at an hotel on a brother who chose to 
come from India to Holland in December. All such 
unnecessary things; and what thousands of them you 
did in your life! There were times when you sim¬ 
ply couldn’t be your own master. . . . He indem¬ 
nified himself by pressing his knees against Lily’s 
and feeling the warmth of her fresh young body. 
His eyes grew misty. 

The cab stopped at the big pension where Uncle 
Daan was accustomed to stay when he came home 
from India. They were at once shown in to Aunt 
Floor, who had seen them through the window; a 
bahoe was standing at the door of the room. 


2I8 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

“ Come inn! Come insside! ” cried Aunt Floor, 
in a bass voice and accentuating her consonants. 
“How d’ye do, Stefanie? How d’ye do, Anton? 
And how d’ye do, Ina . . . and you, little 

Lily: allah,^ two childr-r-ren alr-r-ready, that little 
thing!” 

Aunt Floor had not got up to receive them; she 
was lying on a sofa and a second hahoe was mas¬ 
saging her huge, fat legs. The girl’s hands glided 
to and fro beneath her mistress’ dressing-gown. 

“ Caughtt cold!” said Aunt Floor, angrily, as 
though the others could help it, after renewed words 
of welcome on their part and enquiries after the voy¬ 
age. “ Caughtt cold in the train from Paris. I 
assur-r-re you. I’m as stiff as a boar-r-rd. What 
came over Dhaan, to want to come to Gholland at 
thiss time of year, I cannott make out. . . .” 

“Why didn’t you stay behind in India, Aunt?” 
asked Ina, well-bred and weary-eyed. 

“Not likely! I ssee myself letting Dhaan gho 
alone! No, dear, we’re man and wife and where 
Uncle Dhaan ghoes I gho. Old people like us belong 
to one another. . . . Dhaan is with Gharold now, 
in the other room: your Papa arrived a moment 
agho, Ina. Those two are talking bissiness of course. 
I asked Dhaan, ‘ Dhaan, what on ear-r-rth do you 
want to gho to Gholland for?’ ‘Bissiness!’ says 
Dhaan. Nothing but bissiness, bissiness. I don’t 
understand it: you can always wr-r-rite about bissi- 

‘Lord! 


THINGS THAT PASS 


219 

ness. Year after year that confounded blssiness; 
and nothing ghoes r-r-right: we’re as poor as r-r-rats. 
. . . There, Saripa, soeda^ that’s enough: I’m as 
stiff as a boar-r-rd all the same.” 

The two hoboes left the room; the anthracite- 
stove glowed like an oven, red behind its little mica 
doors. Aunt Floor had drawn herself up with a 
deep sigh and was now sitting: her fat, yellow face, 
with the Chinese slanting eyes, loomed like a full 
moon from out of the hair, still black, which went 
back, smooth and flat, to a large konde; ^ and there 
was something of a mandarin about her as she 
sat, with her legs wide apart in the flannel dressing- 
gown and her fat, swollen little hands on her round 
knees, just as Anton Dercksz often used to sit. Her 
sunken breast hung like the bosom of a tepekong ® 
in two billows on her stomach’s formidable curve; 
and those rounded lines gave her an idol-like 
dignity, as she now sat erect, with her stiff, angry 
mandarin-face. From the long lobes of her ears hung 
a pair of enormous brilliants, which gleamed round 
her with startling brightness and did not seem to 
belong to her attire—the loose flannel bag—so much 
as to her own being, like a jewel set in an idol. She 
was not more than sixty; she was the same age as 
Ottilie Steyn de Weert. 

“And is old Mamma well? . . . It’s nice of 


* That will do. 

“ The chignon or knot of hair at the back of the head. 
Javanese dancer or nautch-girl, often old and ugly. 


220 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

you to have come,” she said, remembering that she 
had not yet said anything amiable to her rela¬ 
tions. 

Her gelatinous mass now shook more genially on 
the sofa, while around her sat Stefanie, with her 
wrinkled witch-face; Anton, who recollected Floor 
forty years ago, when she was still a strapping young 
nonna, a nonna with Chinese blood in her veins, 
which gave her an exotic attraction for the men; 
Ina d’Herbourg, very Dutch and correct, blinking 
her eyes with a well-bred air; and the fair-haired 
little wife, Lily. 

“Why dhoesn’t Dhaan come?” exclaimed Aunt 
Floor. “ Lily, gho and see what’s become of your 
gr-r-randpapa and your uncle.” 

“ Fll go. Aunt,” said Ina d’Herbourg. “ You stay 
here, dear. She mustn’t walk about much yet, 
Aunt.” 

And Ina, who was curious to see the rooms which 
Uncle Daan and Aunt Floor occupied, rose and went 
through Aunt’s bedroom, with a quick glance at the 
trunks. One of the baboes was busy hanging up 
dresses in a wardrobe. 

“Where are the gentlemen, baboe?*^ 

“ In the study, njonja” 

The baboe pointed the way to Ina through the 
conservatory. Well, they were handsome and no 
doubt expensive rooms. Ina knew that the pension 
was not a cheap one; and Uncle Daan and Aunt 
Floor would hardly be poor as “ r-r-rats.” So Uncle 


THINGS THAT PASS 


221 


had his own bedroom and a study besides. Papa 
was with him now and they were doubtless talking 
business, for they were jointly interested in various 
undertakings. At home Papa never talked about 
business, vouchsafed no information, to Ina’s great 
despair, . . . She heard their voices. And she 

was thinking of creeping up quietly through the con¬ 
servatory—who knew but that she might overhear 
some detail which would tell her of the state of 
Uncle Daan’s fortune?—from sheer innocent curi¬ 
osity, when she suddenly stopped with a start. For 
she had heard Uncle Daan’s voice, which had not 
changed during the five years since she had seen 
Uncle, exclaim: 

“ Harold, have you known it all this time? ” 

“ Ssh! ’’ she heard, in her father’s voice. 

And Uncle Daan repeated, in a whisper: 

“ Have you known it all this time? ” 

“ Don’t speak so loud,” said Harold Dercksz, 
in a hushed tone. “ I thought I heard some¬ 
body. ...” 

“ No, it’s the hahoe clearing up . .. and she 

doesn’t understand Dutch. . . .” 

“ Speak low for all that, Daan,” said Harold 
Dercksz. “ Yes, I’ve known it all this time! ” 

“All the time?” 

“ Yes, sixty years.” 

“ I never ... I never knew it.” 

“ Speak low, speak low! And is she dead now? ” 
“ Yes, she’s dead.” 


222 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


“ What did you say her name was? 

“ Ma-Boeten.” 

“That’s it: Ma-Boeten. I was a child of thir¬ 
teen. She was Mamma’s maid and used to look 
after me too.” 

“ It was her children who began to molest me. 
She told her son about it: he is a mantri ' in the 
rent-office.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ He’s a damned villain. I gave him money.” 

“ That was right. . . But, you see, Daan, 

it’s so long ago now.” 

“ Yes, it’s a very long time ago.” 

“ Don’t speak about it to Floor.” 

“ No, never, never. That’s why it’s just as well 
she came with me. If she had stayed at Tegal, that 
damned villain might have . . . Yes, it’s cer¬ 

tainly a very long time ago.” 

“ And it’s passing. . . . It’s passing. . . . 

A little longer and . . . ” 

“ Yes, then it will all be past. . . . But to think 
that you, Harold, should have known it all this 
time! ” 

“Not so loud, not so loud! I hear something 
in the conservatory. . . . ” 

It was Ina’s dress rustling. She had heard with 
a beating heart, tortured with curiosity. And she 
had not understood a word, but she remembered 
the name of the dead bahoe, Ma-Boeten. 

^ Native clerk. 


THINGS THAT PASS 


223 

She now deliberately rustled the silk of her skirt, 
pretended to have just come through the con¬ 
servatory, threw open the doors, stood on the 
threshold: 

“Uncle Daan! Uncle Daan!” 

She saw the two old men sitting, her father and 
his brother. They were seventy-three and seventy. 
They had not yet been able to recover their ordinary 
expression and relax the tense dismay of their old 
faces, which had gazed with blinded eyes into the 
distant past. Ina thought them both looking ghastly. 
What had they been talking about? What was it 
that they were hiding? What had Papa known 
for sixty years ? What had Uncle Daan only known 
for such a short time? . . . And she felt a shiver 
going along her, as of something clammy that went 
trailing by. 

“ IVe come to look for you. Uncle Daan! ” she 
exclaimed, with an affectation of cordiality. “ Wel¬ 
come to Holland, Uncle, welcome! You’re not 
lucky with the weather: it’s bleak and cold. You 
must have been very cold in the train. Poor Aunt 
Floor is as stiff as a board. . . . Uncle Anton is 
there too and Aunt Stefanie; and my Lily came 
along with us. I’m not interrupting you ... in 
your business? ” 

Uncle Daan kissed her, answered her in bluff, 
genial words. He was short, lean, bent, tanned, 
Indian in his clothes; a thin grey tuft of hair and 
the cut of his profile gave him a look of a parrot; 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


224 

and, thanks to this bird-like aspect, he resembled his 
sister Stefanie. Like her, he had quick, beady eyes, 
which still trembled with consternation, because of 
what he had been discussing with his brother Harold. 
He clawed a few papers together, crammed them 
into a portfolio, to give the impression that he and 
Harold had been talking business, and said that they 
were coming. They went back with Ina to the 
sitting-room and greetings were exchanged between 
Uncle Daan and those who had come to welcome 
him. 

“ Aunt Floor knows nothing,” thought Ina, re¬ 
membering how Aunt had just spoken about her 
coming to Holland. 

Why had they come? What was the matter? 
What was it that Papa had known for sixty years 
and Uncle Daan for only such a short time? Was 
that why he had come to Holland ? Had it anything 
to do with money: a legacy to which they were 
entitled? . . . Yes, that was it, a legacy: perhaps 
they would still become very rich. Did Aunt Stefanie 
know about it? Uncle Anton? Aunt Ottilie? Grand¬ 
mamma? Mr. Takma? . . . What^2is\t'^ And, 
if it was a legacy, how much? . . . She was burn¬ 
ing with curiosity, while she remained correct, even 
more correct than she was by nature, in contrast with 
the Indian unconstraint of Uncle Daan—in his slip¬ 
pers—and the Chinese tepekong that was Aunt 
Floor, with her bosom billowing down upon her 
round stomach. She was burning with curiosity. 


THINGS THAT PASS 


225 

while her eyes glanced wearily, while she made well- 
bred efforts to conceal her eager longing to find out. 
And stories were told that did not interest her. 
Uncle Daan and Aunt Floor talked about their 
children: Marinus, who was manager of a big sugar- 
factory and lived near Tegal, with a large family 
of his own; Jeanne—“ Shaan,” as Aunt called her 
—the wife of the resident of Cheribon; Dolf un¬ 
married, a magistrate. She, Ina d’Herbourg, did 
not care a jot about the cousins, male or female, 
would rather never see them: they were such an 
Indian crew; and she just made herself pleasant, 
condescendingly, but not too much so, pretending to 
be interested in the stories of Clara, Marinus’ 
daughter, who was lately married, and Emile, 
“ Shaan’s ” son, who was so troublesome. 

“ Yes,” said Aunt Floor, “ and here we are, in 
Gholland, in this r-r-rotten pension . . . for bissi- 
ness, nothing but bissiness . . . and yes, kassian,"^ 

we’re still as poor as r-r-rats! What am I to do 
here for five months? I shall never stand it, if 
this weather keeps on. Luckily, I’ve got Tien 
Deysselman and Door Perelkamp ”—these were two 
old Indian ladies—“ and they’ll soon look me up. 
They wr-r-rote to me to bring them some Chinese 
cards and I’ve brought twenty packs with me: that’ll 
help me get through the five months. . .” 

And Aunt Floor glared out of her angry old 
mandarin-face at her husband, “ Dhaan.” 

^ Oh dear! Poor things! 


226 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


No, thought Ina, Aunt Floor did not know about 
the legacy. Perhaps it wasn’t a legacy. But then 
what was it? . . . 

She and Lily went back in the cab that came for 
Harold; Stefanie drove Anton home in hers. Ina at 
once went in search of her husband: she must con¬ 
sult somebody and she knew of no one better. She 
found him in his office: 

“ Leopold, can I speak to you? ” she asked. 

“ I have a consultation presently,” he said, conse¬ 
quentially. 

She knew that he was lying, that he had nothing 
to do. She sat down quietly, without removing her 
cloak or hat. 

“Leopold . . .” 

She frightened him. 

“What’s the matter?” he asked. 

“ We must find out why Uncle Daan and Aunt 
Floor have come to Holland.” 

“Goodness gracious!” he exclaimed. “Papa’s 
affairs haven’t gone wrong, have they?” 

“ I don’t know, I don’t think so; but there’s some¬ 
thing that’s brought Uncle Daan over.” 

“ Something? What? ” 

“ I don’t know, but there’s something: something 
that Papa has known for sixty years, ever since he 
was a child of thirteen. Uncle Daan has only known 
it a little while and apparently has come to Holland 
to consult Papa.” 

“How do you know?” 


THINGS THAT PASS 


227 

“ I know: take it from me that I know. And I 
know more besides.” 

“ What is that?” 

“ That Aunt Floor does not know and that Uncle 
Daan does not mean to tell her. That Grand¬ 
mamma’s old bahoe was called Ma-Boeten and that 
she’s dead. That her son is a mantri at Tegal and 
that Uncle Daan has given him money. That’s all 
I know.” 

They looked at each other. Both of them were 
very pale. 

“ What an incoherent story! ” said Leopold 
d’Herbourg, barrister and solicitor, with a conse¬ 
quential shrug of the shoulders. 

Ina, well-bred as usual, cast up her eyes wearily: 

“ It’s very important. I don’t know what it is, 
but it’s important and I want to know. Could it 
have to do with a legacy? ” 

“A legacy? ” echoed D’Herbourg, failing to see. 

“ Something that’s due to us? Could that mantri 
know things which, if Uncle Daan gave him 
money ...” 

“ Perhaps,” said D’Herbourg, “ it has to do with 
money which Papa and Uncle Daan owe . . .” 

This time, Ina turned very pale: 

“No,” she exclaimed, “that would be . . .” 

“ You can never tell. The best thing is not to 
talk about it. Besides, Papa won’t let anything out, 
in any case.” 

But Ina’s curiosity was too much for her. She 


228 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


nodded her head in her well-bred way, under the 
white bird of paradise in her hat: 

“ I must know,” she said. 

“ How will you find out? ” 

“ You might speak to Papa, ask him what’s de¬ 
pressing him. . . 

“ What’s depressing him? But Pve never known 
him to be anything but depressed, during all the 
twenty-three years that we’ve been married. Papa 
never talks to me; he even employs another solicitor 
for his business, as you know.” 

‘‘ Then I will ask Papa.” 

“ That won’t be any good.” 

“ I must know,” said Ina, rising. “ I don’t see a 
legacy in it, after what you’ve said. Oh dear, oh 
dear, who knows what it can be? Money perhaps 
which . . .” 

“ It’s certainly money.” 

“Which Papa and Uncle Daan . . .” 

“ May have to repay, if . . .” 

“ Do you think so? ” 

“ They do so much business in common. That 
leads to all sorts of complications. And it won’t be 
the first time that men who do a great deal of 
business . . . ” 

“ Yes, I understand.” 

“ Perhaps it’s better not to mix yourself up in 
it at all. You would do wiser to be careful. You 
never know what hornets’ nest you’re bringing about 
your ears.” 


THINGS THAT PASS 


229 

“ It happened sixty years ago. It dates sixty years 
back. What an immense time! ” said Ina, hypno¬ 
tized by the thought. 

“ That’s certainly very long ago. The whole thing 
is out of date! ” said D’Herbourg, pretending to 
be indifferent, though inwardly alarmed. 

“ No,” said Ina, shaking the white bird of para¬ 
dise, “ it’s something that is not yet past. It can*t 
be. But Papa hoped that, before very long e.j 

“What?” 

“ It would be past.” 

They both looked very pale: 

“Ina, Ina, do be careful!” said D’Herbourg. 
“ You don’t know what you’re meddling with! ” 

“ No! ” she said, like a woman in a trance. 

She must know, she was determined to know. She 
resolved to speak to her father that evening. 


CHAPTER XIX 


She wandered round the house, greatly agitated and 
uncertain what to do. She heard her son Pol, the 
undergraduate, in his room downstairs, next to the 
front-door. He was sitting there smoking with some 
friends; and as she passed she listened to the lads’ 
noisy voices. There was a ring at the door: it was 
her younger boy, Gus, her favourite; and, glad to 
hear his merry and youthful chatter, she forgot for 
a moment the feverish curiosity that consumed her 
so fiercely. 

She now thought of going to her father in his 
study, but it was too near dinner-time, she feared, 
and Papa did not like being disturbed at this hour. 
She was restless, could not sit down, kept wandering 
about. Just Imagine, if Papa was ruined, what 
should they do? Aunt Stefanie would perhaps leave 
something to Gus, she was fonder of him than of 
the others; but there were so many nephews and 
nieces. If only Aunt didn’t fritter her little fortune 
away in legacies! . . . Her maternal feelings, 

always centring on the question of money, made her 
think of the future of her three children. Well, 
for Lily she was doing everything in her power, 
working on the feelings of both Aunt Stefanie and 
Uncle Anton. As for Pol, he must manage as best he 

230 


THINGS THAT PASS 


231 

could: if he had a million, he would still be hard up. 

The dinner-hour approached; and she waited, 
with D’Herbourg and the two boys, in the dining¬ 
room, for Papa to come down. When Harold 
Dercksz entered, it seemed to her that Father’s long, 
lean figure, which was always bent, was now more 
bent than ever; a bilious yellow gave his hollow 
cheeks a deep metallic colour. Ina loved a formal 
but cheerful table; the simple meal was tastefully 
served; she kept up a certain style in her home, 
was a very grande dame of a housekeeper. She 
had brought up her children with the utmost cor¬ 
rectness and could not understand that Lily had so 
soon kicked over the traces, immediately after her 
marriage: what a scene of slovenliness you always 
found at Frits and Lily’s! She v/as pleased with 
her boys as she thought of it, pleased with their 
manners at table: Pol talked gaily and pleasantly, 
though not too noisily, because of Grandpapa; Gus 
made a little joke from time to time; then Ina would 
laugh and stroke his head. Harold Dercksz hardly 
spoke at all, listened to the boys with a smile of 
pain on his lips. D’Herbourg carved. There was 
usually a separate dish for Grandpapa: he had to 
be very careful because of his digestion and his 
liver. As a matter of fact, he was always in 
pain. Sometimes his forehead puckered with 
physical agony. He never spoke of what he suf¬ 
fered, did what the doctor told him, was always 
taciturn and gentle, quietly dignified, broken in body 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


232 

through illness, broken in soul through the melan¬ 
choly that shone in the gentle glance of his old eyes 
with their discoloured irises. Ina looked after her 
father, began by seeing to his special dish; she was 
attentive and liked to have everything quite right in 
her house and at her table. 

At dessert, however, her uncontrollable curiosity 
arose in her once more. Questions burnt upon her 
lips, but of course she would ask nothing during 
dinner . . . and she again laughed at something 

that Gus said, stroked his curly head. She looked 
more motherly in her indoor dress; when she was 
with Gus, her weary eyes had not the same ultra¬ 
well-bred glance as under the waving white bird of 
paradise, when she sat cheek by jowl with fat Aunt 
Floor, who was so Indian. Papa got up at dessert 
and said, courteously: 

“ Do you mind, Ina? My pain’s rather bad this 
evening. . . . ” 

“Poor Father!” she said, kindly. 

The old man left the room: Pol had jumped up 
at once to open the door for him. The parents and 
the two boys sat on a little longer. Ina told the 
others about Uncle Daan and Aunt Floor; they 
were amused at the twenty packs of Chinese playing- 
cards. Gus, who was a good mimic, imitated the 
Indian accent of Aunt Floor, whom he remembered 
from, her last visit, a couple of years ago; and Ina 
laughed merrily at her boy’s wit. Thus encouraged, 
Gus mimicked Aunt Stefanie, made his face look 


THINGS THAT PASS 


233 

like an elderly bird’s, with a quivering, flexible neck, 
and D’Herbourg roared with delight; but Pol, the 
undergraduate, cried: 

“ Don’t forget, Gus, that you’ve got expectations 
from Aunt. You must never let her know you mimic 
her! ” 

“ It’s not nice of you to say that,” said Ina, in a 
mildly reproachful tone. “ No, Pol, it’s not nice 
of you. You know Mamma doesn’t like allusions to 
expectations and so forth. No, Pol, it’s not very 
good taste. ... I can’t understand how Papa 
can laugh at it.” 

But the merriment continued because of Gus; and, 
when he imitated Uncle Anton, with his fists clenched 
on his knees, Ina allowed herself to be led on and 
they all three laughed, leagued against the Derckszes 
as in a family alliance of aristocratic Jonkheer 
d’Herbourgs against Indian uncles, aunts, grand¬ 
uncles and grandaunts. 

“ Yes, Grandpapa is certainly the best of them,” 
said Pol. “ Grandpapa is always distinguished.” 

” Well, Greatgranny ”—as the children called 
the old lady—“ Greatgranny, old as she is, is a 
very distinguished woman! ” said Ina. 

‘‘ What tons of old people we have in the 
family!” said Gus, irreverently. 

Ina repressed him: no jokes about the old lady; 
for that matter, they all of them stood in awe of 
her, because she was so very old and remained so 
majestic. 


234 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

“Aunt Ottilie has turned sixty, hasn’t she?” Ina 
asked, suddenly, hypnotized by the number sixty, 
which loomed fatefully large before her eyes. 

And the D’Herbourgs now ceased talking of 
money, but discussed the family instead. With the 
exception of Grandmamma and Papa—Greatgranny 
and Grandpapa to the boys—they pulled all the 
others to pieces and Gus mimicked them all: in addi¬ 
tion to Uncle Anton, Aunt Stefanie and Aunt Floor, 
he mimicked Uncle Daan, mimicked the son who 
held a legal office out there, mimicked “ Shaan,” the 
resident’s wife at Cheribon. He had seen them all 
in Holland, when they came home for anything 
from two to twelve months on leave; and they al¬ 
ways provided food for discussion and jest in the 
D’Herbourg mansion. But Ina did not laugh any 
more and stood up, while her curiosity burnt her 
to the point of causing her physical pain. 

Harold Dercksz was sitting upstairs at his big 
writing-table. A lamp with a green shade made him 
appear still yellower; and the wrinkles were sharply 
furrowed in the old man’s worn face. He sat huddled 
in his chair, screening his eyes with his hand. In 
front of him lay great sheets of figures, which he had 
to examine, as Daan had asked him to. He stared 
before him. Sixty years ago he had seen the Thing. 
It was slowly passing, but in passing it came back 
again to him so closely, so very closely. The sight 
of it had given his child-brain and child-nerves a 
shock for all his life; and that he had grown old 


THINGS THAT PASS 235 

quietly, very old, older than he need have, was due 
to his self-restraint. . . . The thing of the past, 
the terrible Thing, was a ghost and looked at him 
with eyes while it came nearer, dragging its veil of 
mist over rustling leaves, over a path lined with 
sombre trees from which the leaves fell everlast¬ 
ingly. . . . The Thing was a ghost and came 

nearer and nearer in passing, before it would vanish 
entirely in the past; but never had a single creature 
appeared from behind the trees to stretch out a for¬ 
bidding hand and hold back the ghastly Thing that 
went trailing by. . . . Was a shadow loitering 

behind the trees, was some one really appearing, 
did he really see a hand motioning the thing, the 
ghastly Thing, to stop in its passage through the 
rustling leaves? . . . Oh, if it would only pass! 

. . . How slowly, how slowly it passed! . . . 
For sixty long years it had been passing, passing. 
. . . And the old man and the old woman, both in 
their respective houses or sitting together at the 
windows, were waiting until it should have passed. 
. . . But it would not pass, so long as they were 
still alive. . . . Harold Dercksz felt pity for the 
old man, for the old woman. . . . Oh, if it would 
but pass ! . . . How long the years lasted! . . . 
How old they had grown! . . . Why must they 
grow so old? . . .Was that their punishment, 

their punishment, the punishment of both of them? 
For he now knew what part his mother had played 
in the crime, the terrible crime. Daan had told 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


236 

him; Ma-Boeten had told her son; the mantri had 
told Daan. There were so many who knew it 1 And 
the old people believed that nobody . . . that 

,nobody knew it except . . . except old Dr. 

Roelofsz! . . . Oh, so many knew it, knew the 

Thing that was buried and kept on raising its spec¬ 
tral form, the secret that was always rising up again 
in its clammy mist. . . . Oh, that he must needs 

grow so old, so old that Daan now knew it too I If 
only Daan held his tongue and did not tell Floor! 
Would he hold his tongue? Would the mantri go 
on holding his tongue? Money must be paid, at 
least until the old, the poor old people were dead 
. . . and until the Thing was past for them and 
with them. . . . 

A gentle tap; and the door opened: he saw his 
daughter on the threshold. 

“ Father dearest,’’ she said, winningly. 

“ What is it, dear? ” 

Ina came nearer. 

“ I’m not disturbing you, I hope? I came to see 
how you were. I thought you looked so bad at 
dinner. . . . ” 

She tended him, like a good daughter; and he ap¬ 
preciated it. His heart was sensitive and soft and 
he appreciated the companionship of the home: Ina’s 
care, the boys’ youth imparted a genial warmth to 
his poor chilled heart; and he put out his hand to 
her. She sat down beside his chair, giving a quick 
glance at the papers before him, interested in the 


THINGS THAT PASS 


237 

sight of all those figures, which no doubt repre¬ 
sented the state of Papa’s fortune and Uncle Daan’s, 
Then she asked: 

“Are you ill, Father dear?” 

“ Yes,” he said, moaning, “ Pm in pain.” And, 
moved by her affection, he added, “ Better if it 
were over with me soon.” 

“Don’t say that: we could never do without 
you.” 

He smiled, with a gesture of denial: 

“You would have a trouble the less.” 

“ Why, you know you’re no trouble to me.” 

It was true and she said it sincerely; the 
note of sincerity rang true in his child’s motherly 
voice. 

“ But you oughtn’t to be always working like 
this,” she went on. 

“ I don’t do much work.” 

“What are all those figures?” 

She smiled invitingly. He knew her curiosity, had 
known it ever since her childhood, when he had 
caught her ferreting in his writing-desk. Since 
that time, he had locked everything up. 

“ Business,” he replied, “ Indian business. I have 
to look into these figures for Uncle Daan, but it 
doesn’t mean much work.” 

“ Is Uncle Daan satisfied with the business?” 

“ Yes, he is. We shall be rich yet, dear.” 

“ Do you think so ? ” 

Her voice sounded greedy. 


238 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

“ Yes. Have no fear. Pll leave you something 
yet.” 

His voice sounded bitter. 

“ Oh, Father, I really wasn’t thinking of that. I 
do worry about money sometimes, because of Lily, 
who married on nothing: what have Frits and Lily 
to live on? And because of my boys. I don’t care 
about money myself.” 

It was almost true; it had become true as the 
years went on. Since she had grown older, she 
thought of money more for her children’s sake; 
motherliness had developed in her soul, even though 
that soul remained material and small. 

“ Yes,” said Harold Dercksz, “ I know.” 

“ You are so depressed. Father.” 

“ I am just the same as usual.” 

“ No, Uncle Daan has made you depressed. I 
can see it.” 

He was silent and on his guard. 

“ You never speak out. Father. Is there 
nothing I can do for you? What’s depressing 
you? ” 

‘‘ Nothing, dear.” 

“Yes, there is; yes, there is. Tell me what’s 
depressing you.” 

He shook his head. 

“Won’t you tell me?” 

“ There’s nothing.” 

“ Yes, there’s something. Perhaps it’s something 
terrible.” 


239 


THINGS THAT PASS 

He looked her in the eyes. 

“ Father, is it a secret? ” 

“ No, dear.’’ 

“Yes, it is; it’s a secret. It’s a secret, a secret 
that’s depressing you .. . . since I don’t know how 
long.” 

He turned cold in his limbs and all his soul armed 
itself, as in a cuirass, and he remained like that, on 
his guard. 

“ Child, you’re fancying things,” he said. 

“ No, I’m not, but you won’t speak. It hurts me 
to see you so sad.” 

“ I am unwell.” 

“ But you are depressed . . . by that terrible 
thing . . . that secret. . . 

“ There’s nothing.” 

“ No, there must be something. Is it about 
money? ” 

“ No.” 

“Is it about money which Uncle Daan . . .” 

He looked at her. 

“ Ina,” he said, “ Uncle Daan sometimes has 
different ideas about absolute honesty in business 
. . . from those which I have. But he always 

ends by accepting my view. I am not depressed by 
any secret about money.” 

“ About what then? ” 

“ Nothing. There is no secret, dear. You’re 
fancying things.” 

“No, I’m not. I . . . I . . 


240 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


“You know?” he asked, loudly, with his eyes 
looking into hers. 

She started. 

“ N-no,” she stammered. “I . . r. I don’t 

know anything . . . but . . I feel . . .” 

“What?” 

“ That there’s a secret that’s depressing you.” 

“What about?” 

“About . . . about something that’s hap¬ 
pened. . . .” 

“ You know,” he said. 

“ No, I don’t.” 

“ Nothing has happened, Ina,” he said, coldly. 
“ I am an old, sick man. You tire me. Leave me 
in peace. Leave me in peace.” 

He rose from his chair, nervous, agitated. She 
drew up her weary eyes with her well-bred express¬ 
ion, with her mother’s expression, the expression of 
the IJsselmondes, who were her source of pride. 

“ I will noPtire you. Papa,” she said—and her 
voice, sharp but tuned to the correct social enuncia¬ 
tion, sounded affected—“ I will not tire you. I will 
leave you in peace. I came to you, I wanted to speak 
to you . . . because I thought . . . that you 

had some worry . . . some sorrow. I wanted to 
share it. But I will not insist.” 

She went on, slowly, with the offended haughti¬ 
ness of a grande dame, as Harold Dercksz remem¬ 
bered seeing his mother leave the room after a 
conversation. A reproachful tenderness welled up 


THINGS THAT PASS 241 

in him; he had almost kept her back. But he re¬ 
strained his emotion and let her go. She was a 
good daughter to him, but her soul, the soul of a 
small-minded woman, was all consumed with money 
needs, with foolish conceit about small, vain things 
—because her mother was a Freule IJsselmonde— 
and with a passionate curiosity. He let her go, he 
let her go; and his loneliness remained around him. 
He sank into his chair again, screened his eyes with 
his hand; and the lamplight under the green shade 
furrowed the wrinkles sharply in his worn face of 
anguish. He stared out before him. What did she 
know? What did she guess? What had she over¬ 
heard perhaps ... in the conservatory, as she 
came to them? . . . He tried to remember the 

last words which he had exchanged with Daan. He 
could not remember. He decided that Ina knew 
nothing, but that she guessed, because of his in¬ 
creased depression. . . . Oh, if the Thing would 
only pass! . . . Oh, if the old people would only 
die! . . . Oh, that no one might be left to know! 

. . It was enough, it was enough, there had 

been enough years of self-reproach and silent, in¬ 
ward punishment for people who were so old, so 
very old. . . . 

And he stared, as though he were looking the 
Thing in the eyes. 

He stared all the evening long; sitting in his 
chair, his face twisted with illness and pain, he fell 
asleep with the light sleep of old people, quick to 


THINGS THAT PASS 


242 

come and quick to go, and he saw himself again, a 
child of thirteen, in the night in the pasangrahan and 
heard his mother’s voice: 

“ O my God, O my God, no, no, not in the 
river! ” 

And he saw those three—but young still—his 
mother, Takma, Ma-Boeten; and between them his 
father’s lifeless body, in the pelting rain of that 
fatal night.. 


CHAPTER XX 


Ina lay awake all night. Yes, curiosity was her 
passion, had been since her childhood. If she could 
only know now, now, now! Her husband would give 
her no assistance, was afraid of complications which 
might threaten, if they meddled with matters that 
did not concern them. She herself was curious to 
the point of imprudence. She now wanted to talk 
to Uncle Daan, whom she was sure to meet next 
day at Grandmamma’s. . . 

She went that afternoon to the Nassaulaan. Old 
Anna opened the door, glad that the old lady was 
not neglected : 

“ Good-afternoon, ma’am. . . . Mr. Takma, 

Dr. Roelofsz and Mrs. Floor are upstairs. . . . 
Yes, you can go up presently. . . Thank you, 

the old lady is very well Indeed. . . . Yes, yes, 

she’ll outlive us all yet. . . . Would you mind 

waiting a minute, In the morning-room? We’re 
keeping up a nice fire here now, In the cold weather; 
for, though the mistress never comes downstairs, as 
you know, there’s usually somebody of the family 
waiting. ...” 

Old Anna gave Ina a chair. The servant had 
turned the morning-room Into a comfortable wait¬ 
ing-room. This secured that there was never too 
243 


244 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


much fuss around the old lady, which would not 
have done at all. The closed stove burnt well. The 
chairs were arranged in a circle. And the old 
servant, from politeness, to keep Ina company, stood 
by her for a moment, talking, till Ina said: 

“ Sit down, Anna.” 

The old servant sat down respectfully on the edge 
of a chair. That was a habit which visitors had 
adopted with her, because she was so old. She 
asked politely after Mrs. Lily’s little ones. 

“The first really fine day, Mrs. van Wely will 
bring the babies to see their great-great-grand¬ 
mamma.” 

“ Yes, the mistress will love that,” said the old 
servant; but she jumped up at the same time and 
exclaimed, “Well, I never! There’s Miss Stefanie 
too! Well, they’re certainly not neglecting the old 
lady!” 

She showed Aunt Stefanie de Laders in to Ina 
and withdrew to the kitchen. 

“ Mr. Takma, the doctor and Aunt Floor are 
upstairs,” said Ina. “ We will wait a little. Aunt. 
. . .Tell me. Aunt, do you know why Uncle Daan 
has really come to Holland?” 

“ Business? ” said Stefanie, interrogatively. 

“ I don’t think so. I believe there’s something the 
matter.” 

“Something the matter?” said Stefanie, with 
rising interest. “ What sort of thing? Something 
that’s not quite proper?” 


THINGS THAT PASS 


245 

“ I can’t tell what it is exactly. As you know, 
Papa never lets anything out.” 

“ Is Uncle Daan ruined? ” 

“ I thought he might be, but Papa says positively 
that there is no question of money. As to what it 
is . . .” 

“ But what could it be?” 

“ There’s something^* 

They looked into each other’s eyes, both of them 
burning with curiosity. 

“ How do you know it, Ina? ” 

“ Papa is very much depressed since he’s seen 
Uncle Daan.” 

“ Yes, but how do you know that there’s some¬ 
thing the matter? ” 

The need to talk overcame Ina’s prudence: 

“ Aunt Stefanie,” she whispered, “ I really 
couldn’t help it . . . but yesterday, when I went 

to fetch Uncle Daan and Papa in Uncle’s study, I 
heard ... in the conservatory ...” 

Aunt Stefanie, eager to learn, tremulously nodded 
her restless little bird’s-head. 

“ I heard . . . Papa and Uncle Daan talking 
for a moment. Of course I didn’t listen; and they 
stopped speaking when I went in. But still I heard 
Uncle Daan say to Papa, ‘ Have you known it all 
this time?’ And then Papa said, ‘Yes, sixty 
years.’ ” 

“Sixty years?” said Aunt Stefanie, in suspense. 
“ That’s ever since Ottilie was born. Perhaps it 


246 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

had to do with Ottilie. You know, Ina, Aunt Ottille 

is . . 

“Takma’s daughter?” 

Aunt Stefanie nodded: 

“ People used to talk a lot about it at one time. 
They’ve forgotten it now. It all happened so long 
ago. Mamma did not behave at all properly. Yes, 
she has been very sinful.” 

“ Could that be what they were talking about? ” 
“ No, I don’t think so. Uncle Daan knew all 
about it. And Papa would not have said, ‘ I’ve 
known it for sixty years.’ ” 

“ No,” said Ina, lost in conjecture. 

And her usually weary eyes were bright and clear, 
in their effort to penetrate the vagueness of the 
Thing which she saw. 

“ No,” said Stefanie, “ it can’t be that.” 

“What then?” 

“ Something . . . about Mamma.” 

“ About Grandmamma? ” 

“ Yes, it’s sure to have been about Grand¬ 
mamma. . . . Sixty years ago. . . .” 

“ What a long time! ” said Ina. 

“ I was a girl of . . . seventeen,” said Aunt 

Stefanie. “ Yes, it was a long time ago.” 

“ And you were seventeen.’ 

“Yes. . . . That’s when Papa Dercksz died.” 
“ Grandpapa? ” 

“Yes. He was drowned, you know.” 

“ Yes, it dates back to that time.” 


THINGS THAT PASS 


247 


“Yes. . . . What it be ? ” 

“Do you remember Grandmamma’s bahoef.** 

“ I do. She was called Ma-Boeten.” 

“ She’s dead.” 

“ How do you know? ” 

“ I heard it.” 

“In the conservatory?” 

“ Yes, I heard it in the conservatory.” 

“ What else did you hear? ” 

“ Ma-Boeten’s son is a mantri in the Tegal rent- 
office.” 

“Well . . . ?” 

“ Uncle Daan gives him money.” 

“ Money?” 

“ Either to speak . . . or to hold his tongue. 

I believe it’s to hold his tongue.” 

“Then can anything have happened?” 

“Sixty years ago? Auntie, carCt you remem¬ 
ber?” 

“ But, my dear, I was so young, I didn’t notice 
things. I was a girl of seventeen. Yes, yes. Auntie 
herself was young once. I was seventeen. . . . 

I and the other children had remained in the town: 
a sister of Grandmamma’s was taking charge of us. 
Papa had gone to the hills for his health. He and 
Mamma were staying at a pasangrahan and—I re¬ 
member this now—they had taken Harold with 
them. Yes, I remember, Harold was not with us. 
They had taken him: Harold was Papa’s favourite. 
. .It was there that Papa was drowned. 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


248 

One night, in the kali.^ He was restless, could not 
sleep, walked into the jungle, missed his way and 
slipped into the river. I remember all that.’’ 

“ And Papa was in the pasangrahan with them? ” 

“ Yes, your father was with them. He was a 
little fellow of thirteen then.” 

“And he has known^ since then?” 

“Is that what he says?” 

“ Then he must know something w w about 
the hills, about the pasangrahan. . i.” 

“ Ina, what can it be? ” 

“ I have no idea. Aunt, but it must be something 
. . . about Grandmamma. . . .” 

“Yes,” said Aunt Stefanie, with sudden caution; 
“ but, whatever it is, dear ... it happened so 
long ago. If it’s anything, it’s probably something 
. . . improper. Don’t let’s rake it up. It is so 

long ago now, sixty years ago. And Grandmamma 
is so old. . . .” 

She stopped; and her beady bird’s-eyes stared 
and blinked. It was as if she suddenly saw some¬ 
thing looming, something that was coming nearer; 
and she did not want to talk any more. She did 
not even want to know. A shuddering anxiety, 
mingled with a mist of vaguest memories, swam in 
front of her blinking eyes. She would enjoin silence 
upon it. It was not wise to penetrate too deeply 
into the things of the past. Years passed, things 
passed: it was best to let them pass quietly, to let 

* River. 


THINGS THAT PASS 249 

sin pass by. . . . The powers of Hell lurked 
in sinfulness. Hell lurked in curiosity. Hell lurked 
as a devil’s sabbath in Anton’s books and albums. 
It lurked in her mother’s past. It lurked in Ina’s 
devouring curiosity. She, Aunt Stefanie, was afraid 
of Hell: she wanted to go to Heaven. She no 
longer wanted to know what might have happened. 
And she shut her blinking eyes before the mist of 
remembrance and kept them closed: 

“ No, dear,” she repeated, don^t let us rake it 
up.” 

She would not say any more; and Ina was certain 
that Aunt knew, that Aunt at any rate remembered 
something. But she knew Aunt Stefanie: she would 
not speak now, any more than Papa would. Was 
she on her guard? Oh, what was it, what could it 


CHAPTER XXI 


But Aunt Floor was just coming, shuffling down the 
stairs with her flopping bosom, and Uncle Daan 
was just ringing at the front-door. Old Anna was 
delighted. She loved that bustle of members of the 
family on the ground-floor and she received every¬ 
body with her pleased old face and her meek, civil 
remarks, while the fat cat under her petticoats 
arched its back and tail against her legs. Old Dr. 
Roelofsz came limping down the stairs behind Aunt 
Floor, hobbling on his one stiff leg; and his 
enormous paunch seemed to push Aunt Floor on, as 
she shuffled carefully, step by step. 

Aunt Stefanie was glad to get rid of Ina d’Her- 
bourg and said: 

“ Now ril go upstairs.” 

She pushed past Roelofsz’ stiff leg in the passage 
and forced her way to the stairs between Daan and 
Aunt Floor; and, in her nervous hurry, afraid of 
Ina, of sinfulness, of curiosity, afraid of Hell, she 
almost stumbled over the cat, which slipped just 
between her feet. 

“ I thought I should find you here, Roelofsz,” 
said Uncle Daan. “ If I hadn’t, I should have 
looked you up at once.” 


250 


THINGS THAT PASS 


251 

“ Aha, aha, well-well-well, so you’re back once 
more, Dercksz! ” said the old doctor. 

They shook hands; and Daan Dercksz nervously 
looked at Dr. Roelofsz, as if he wanted to say 
something. But he wavered and merely remarked, 
hesitatingly, to Ina: 

“ Aren’t you going upstairs, Ina? ” 

“ No, Uncle,” answered Ina, with apparent po¬ 
liteness, glad to have a word with Dr. Roelofsz. 
“ You go first. Honestly, you go first. I can easily 
wait a little longer. I’ll wait down here.” 

Dr. Roelofsz joined her in the morning-room,> 
rubbing his cold hands, saying that it was warmer 
here than upstairs, where they only kept up a small 
fire: old Takma was never cold; he was always blaz¬ 
ing hot inside. But Aunt Floor, who also came 
into the morning-room for a minute, puffed and 
put off her heavy fur cloak, Ina helping her: 

“ A handsome cloak. Aunt.” 

“ Oh, I don’t know, child! ” said Aunt Floor, 
disparagingly. “ Just an old fur. Had it thr-r-ree 
year-r-rs. But useful in Gholland: nice and 
war-r-r-m! ” 

Inwardly proud of the cloak, she bit the last word 
into Ina’s face, rolling her r’s as she did so. They 
all three sat down and Anna thought it so pleasant 
of them that she brought in some brandy-cherries, 
three glasses on a tray: 

“ Or would you rather have tea, Mrs. Ina?” 

“ No, Anna, your cherries are delicious.” 


252 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

The servant went away, glad, happy at the bustle 
on the ground-floor, to which the old lady no longer 
ever descended. That ground-floor was her king¬ 
dom, where not even the companion held sway, 
where she, Anna, alone held sway, receiving the 
family and offering refreshments. 

Ina tasted a cherry, was sorry that Aunt Floor 
had joined them in the morning-room. It was quite 
possible that the old doctor, a younger contemporary 
of Grandmamma’s, knew something; but it was not 
certain. For Uncle Daan himself had only known it 
such a little while, though Papa had known it for 
sixty years. Sixty years! The length of that past 
•hypnotized her. Sixty years ago, that old ailing 
doctor—who had given up practice and now merely 
kept Grandmamma and Mr. Takma going, with 
the aid of a younger colleague—was a young man 
of twenty-eight, newly-arrived in Java, one of 
Grandmamma’s many adorers. 

She saw it before her and tried to see farther 
into it; her curiosity, like a powerful lens, burnt 
and revealed a vista in front of her, gleaming with 
new light, through the opaque denseness of the past. 
And she began: 

Poor Papa is not at all well. I’m afraid he’s 
going to be ill. He is so depressed mentally too. 
Yes, Aunt, he has been more depressed, mentally, 
since he saw Uncle Daan again than I have known 
him for years. What can it be? It can’t be money- 
matters. . . t.” 


THINGS THAT PASS 253 

“ No, my dear, it’s not money-matters, though 
we’re still as poor as r-r-rats.” 

“ Then what has brought Uncle Daan to Hol¬ 
land?” asked Ina, suddenly and quickly. 

Aunt Floor looked at her stupidly: 

“What’s brought him? . . . Upon my word, 
child, I don’t know. Blessed if I know. Uncle 
always ghoes r-r-regularly to Gholland ... on 
bissiness, bissiness, always bissiness. What they’re 
scheming together now, your Papa and Uncle Daan, 
blessed if I know; but we sha’n’t get rich on it.” 
And she shook her head almost in Ina’s face, re¬ 
proachfully. “ And it’s year-r-rs that they’ve been 
messing about together.” 

“ Poor Papa! ” said Ina, sighing. 

“ Yes-yes-yes, well-well-well,” exclaimed the doc¬ 
tor, sitting sideways, with his paunch dangling in 
front of him, “ we’re getting old, we’re getting 
old . . .” 

“ Speak for yourself I ” cried Aunt Floor, angrily. 
“ I’m only ssixty.” 

“Only sixty? Aha, aha!” mumbled the doctor. 
“ Only sixty? I thought you were older.” 

“ I’m only ssixty, I tell you 1 ” said Aunt Floor, 
wrathfully. 

“ Yes-yes, then you’re the same age . . . 

as . . . as Ottilie. . . . Well-well, well- 

well! . . .” 

“ Yes,” said Aunt Floor, “ I’m just the same age 
as Ottilie Steyn.” 


254 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

“ Sixty years . . . well-well 1 ” mumbled the 

doctor. 

“ You were a young man then, doctor,” said Ina, 
with a little laugh. 

“ Yes-yes, child, yes-yes ... a young man! ” 

“ There’s a good many years between you and 
Grandmamma, isn’t there?” 

“ Yes-yes-yes 1 ” said Dr. Roelofsz, confirming the 
statement vehemently. “ Nine years’ difference, 
nine years. . . . And with Takma . . . 

five years . . . aha, yes, five years . . . 

that’s the difference between him and me . . .” 

“ It’s so nice that you and Grandmamma and Mr. 
Takma have always kept together,” Ina continued, 
softly. “ First in India . . > and afterwards 

always here, at the Hague.” 

“Yes-yes, we just kept together. . . 

“ Ssuch old fr-r-riends 1 ” said Aunt Floor, with 
feeling. 

But she winked at Ina, to convey that Dr. 
Roelofsz, in spite of the difference of nine years, 
had nevertheless been a very intimate friend of 
Grandmamma’s. 

“ Doctor,” said Ina, suddenly, “ is it true that, 
sixty years ago . . . ? ” 

She stopped, not knowing what to say. She had 
begun her sentence like that, craftily, and now broke 
it off deliberately. The old doctor had a shock: 
his paunch flung itself from left to right and now 
hung over his sound leg. 


THINGS THAT PASS 


255 


Wha-at? he almost screamed. 

His eyes rolled in his head as he looked at her. 
Terror distorted the wrinkled roundness of his 
enormous old head, with the monk’s-face, clean¬ 
shaven, and the sunken mouth, which was now open, 
while slaver flowed between the crumbly teeth over 
the frightened lips. He clenched and raised his old 
hands, with the skin hanging in loose, untidy folds, 
and then dropped them on his knee. 

He knew: Ina saw that at once. And she acted 
as though his scream was no more than an exclama¬ 
tion following upon a failure to hear, because of his 
deafness; she raised her voice politely and quietly 
and repeated in a little louder tone, articulating her 
words very clearly: 

“ Is it true that, sixty years ago. Grandmamma 
—though she was thirty-seven then—was still a 
gloriously beautiful woman? Yes, those old people 
took more care of themselves than we do. I’m 
forty-five, but I’m an old woman. . . .” 

“ Come, come,” said Aunt Floor, “ an oldd 
womann! ” 

And the doctor mumbled: 

“ Yes-yes, aha, oh, is that what you were asking, 
Ina? . . . Yes, yes, certainly: Grandmamma 

. . . Grandmamma was a splendid, a splendid 

woman . . . even after she was past her first 

youth. . . .” 

“And what about Ottilie? She was for-r-rty 
when Steyn fell in love with her.” 


256 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

“ Yes,” said Ina. “ It wasn’t . . . quite nice 
of Aunt Ottilie; but it was a wonderful testimony 
to her youth. . . 

And she stared at the doctor with the hidden 
glance of her well-bred, wearily-blinking eyes. He 
sat huddled in his chair, an old, decayed, shapeless 
mass, a heaped-up ruin of a man and a human 
being, an old, old monk, but wearing a loose frock- 
coat and loose waistcoat, which draped his broad 
body. The terror in his rolling eyes had died away; 
and his glance drooped to the left, his head to the 
right. It was as though he were seized with inertia, 
after his fright, after his excessive emotion at Ina’s 
question, at the ominous number of sixty. He 
nodded his enormous head sagaciously; and, in the 
wintry light from outside, the shiny top of his head 
became covered with bright patches. 

‘‘Yes-yes-yes, well-well-well!” he mumbled, al¬ 
most like an idiot. 

He rose laboriously, now that Daan Dercksz 
came downstairs, followed by Stefanie, followed by 
old Mr. Takma, who refused any assistance on the 
stairs, though Anna made a point of looking on 
anxiously, driving away the cat, fearing lest it 
should slip between the old gentleman’s feet. 

“ Grandmamma is tired,” said Daan Dercksz. 

“ Then I’d better not go up,” said Ina. “ No, 
Anna, I think I won’t go up. I’ll come back some 
other day soon. Grandmamma has had so many 
visitors to-day.” 


THINGS THAT PASS 257 

Nevertheless she lingered a little and then went 
away, sick with unsatisfied curiosity, which filled her 
soul with ravenous hunger. Aunt Stefanie also took 
her leave, saying that Mamma was poorly to-day; 
and the last to go was old Takma, calculating his 
steps carefully, but walking straight and erect. Ina 
felt that he too must know. What was it, what^ 
could it be? Those old people knew, every one of 
them! 

“ Come, let’s go home, Dhaan,” said Aunt Floor. 
“ Our car-r-riage is waiting.” 

“ You go,” said Daan Dercksz, hesitating. “ I 
want to talk to Roelofsz first. I’m so glad to see 
him again. . . .” 

“Eh, always talking!” said Aunt Floor, dis¬ 
pleased when her husband left her side. “ Then 
I’ll send back the car-r-riage for you pre¬ 
sently. . . .” 

She said good-bye and shuffled away. 

“May I see you home, Mr. Takma?” Ina 
asked. 

Takma nodded his consent: 

“ Do, child,” he said, taking her arm. 

Though he held himself well and would never 
have a cab, he always thought it reassuring and 
pleasant if somebody went back with him, down the 
Nassaustraat, over the razor-back bridge, to his 
house on the Mauritskade. He never asked to be ac¬ 
companied, but was glad to accept when any one 
offered. Ina, however, reflected that she would not 


258 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

dare to ask old Mr. Takma anything: Imagine, 
suppose he knew and were also to get a shock, in 
the street! It would be enough to give him a 
stroke! No, she was too careful for that, but she 
was sick and famished with the hunger of curiosity 
in her soul. What could It be? And how should 
she ever know? 

Daan Dercksz remained behind with the old 
doctor. His parrot-profile shook and his beady 
bird’s-eyes—Aunt Stefanle’s eyes—kept blinking as 
though with excitement, while all his lean figure 
seemed to shrivel still smaller beside the colossal 
bulk of the doctor, who towered before him with the 
figure of a deformed Templar, resting on one leg 
which was sound and one which was short and 
limping. 

“ Well, Roelofsz,” said Daan Dercksz, “ I am 
glad to see you again.” 

“ Yes-yes, aha, it’s quite five years since you were 
in Holland last. . . . Well-well, that’s a long 

time. . . . We’re growing old, we’re growing 

old. . . . You didn’t expect to find your mother 

so fit. . . . Yes-yes, I’ll make her see a hundred 

yet! You wait and see, you wait and see. . . . 

Perhaps she’ll survive us all, Takma and me, yes- 
yes. . . .” 

“ Yes,” said Daan Dercksz, “ Mamma is very 
little altered.” 

“ She has a splendid constitution, yes-yes, always 
has had. Her mind’s quite clear; her memory is 


THINGS THAT PASS 


259 

good; well-well, yes-yes, that’s a blessing, at her 
age. ...” 

“ And Takma also . . .” 

“ Keeps well, keeps well, yes-yes. . . Well- 

well, we’re all growing old ... I too, yes-yes, 
I too. . . .” 

But Daan Dercksz was greatly agitated. He had 
promised his brother Harold to be very careful 
and not to talk, but, during the two months that 
he had known, the secret and the horror of it burnt 
into his soul, the soul of a business-man who, old as 
he was, for the first time underwent a great emotion 
outside his business. 

And he could not hold himself in check. The 
house was silent. Anna had gone back to her 
kitchen; the old lady was sitting upstairs, alone 
with the companion. A small gas-jet was burning 
in the morning-room; another in the passage. 
Afternoon darkness and silence hovered in the 
atmosphere of the little house in which the old lady 
had lived so long, had so long sat waiting at her 
window upstairs, in her high chair. . . . 

“ Roelofsz,” said Daan Dercksz. 

He was a head shorter than the doctor; he took 
hold of a button of the doctor’s waistcoat. 

“Yes-yes,” said Roelofsz. “What is it, 
Dercksz? ” 

“ Roelofsz . . . I’ve heard about it.” 

“ What? ” shouted the doctor, deaf. 

“ I’ve heard everything ... in India.” 


26 o 


OLD PEOPLE AND* THE 


shouted the doctor, no longer deaf, 

but dismayed. 

‘‘ IVe heard everything, heard it all . . . in 

India.’* 

The doctor looked at him with rolling eyes; and 
his pendulous lips slavered in his clean-shaven 
monk’s-face, while his breath panted, reeking be¬ 
tween the crumbly teeth. 

And he, in his turn, caught hold of one of Daan 
Dercksz’ buttons: 

** What have you heard?” 

“ I’ve heard everything ,Daan Dercksz re¬ 
peated. “ Heard it all . . . in India. I know 

. .1 know everything.” 

“You know . . . everything? Oh? Oh? 
You know everything? . . . What . . .. what 
do you know? ” 

“ About . . > about Mamma. , . . About 
Takma. . . . About . . .” 

They stood staring into each other’s startled 
eyes. 

“About my father,” said Daan Dercksz; and 
his frightened voice sank to a hesitating whisper. 
“About my father. What you know too. What 
you have always known. That Takma, that night, 
when he was with my mother, snatched my father’s 
own weapon from him: a kris which the Regent had 
given him the day before . . . ” 

“You know?” cried the doctor. “You know? 
Oh, my God! Do you know that? I ... I 


THINGS THAT PASS 261 

have never said a word, I am eightee-eight years 
of age . . . but I’ve . . . I’ve never said a 

word.*^ 

“ No, you never said anything . . . but 

Mamma’s bahoe . . 

“ Ma-Boeten? ” 

“ Yes, Ma-Baeten told her son, a mantri at 
Tegal. Ma-Boeten is dead and the mantri has 
started blackmailing me. He’s been to me for 
money. I’ve given him money. I shall give him 
money every month.” 

“ So you know. . . . Yes-yes, O my God, 

yes-yes! ... So you know, Dercksz, you 
know? ” 

“ Yes, I know.” 

“What did the mantri say? What had Ma- 
Boeten told him? . . .” 

“ That my father tried to kill Takma, with a 
kris. . . . That Takma snatched the kris from 

him, while . . .” 

“While what? . . . Yes-yes, while what?” 

“While Mamma . . . while my mother . . .” 

“Yes-yes?” 

“ Flung her arms round my father, to prevent 
him ...” 

“ O my God, yes, yes! ” 

“To prevent him from defending himself . . . 
and that Ma-Boeten, behind the door, heard her 
say . . .” 

“Yes-yes . . . yes-yes . . . O my God!” 


262 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

“ Heard her say, ‘ I hate you, I hate you: IVe 
always hated you . . . ’ ” 

“Yes-yes . . . O my God!” 

“ ‘ Pve always hated you and . . . and I love 
Emile!’” 

“Yes-yes . . . and then?” 

“And then she called out to Takma, almost 
aloud, ‘ Emile, give him a stab: rather he than 
you!’” 

“O . . . my . . . God!” 

The doctor sank, in a heavy mass, upon a chair: 

“ So you know! ” he moaned. “ It’s sixty years 
ago, yes-yes, O my God, yes-yes! I’ve never 
spoken about it, never! I was so fond of your 
mother. I ... I ... I held an inquest on 
the body next day! ” 

“ Yes, they let it drift down stream . . . in 

the kali . . .” 

“ I held an inquest on the body next day . . . 

and I ... I understood, ... I had understood 
it before, for I had seen your mother that morning 
and she was raving in her delirium . . . and I 

. . . I promised . . . yes-yes, I promised 
that I wouldn’t tell . . . O my God, O my God 
. . . if she . .. . if she would consent to love 

me! O my God, O my God, Dercksz, Dercksz, 
Daan, I have never . . . I have never said a 

word! . . . And God knows what people, sixty 
years ago, yes-yes, sixty years ago, didn’t think 
. . . and say . . . and gossip and gossip . . . 


THINGS THAT PASS 263 

without knowing the truth . . . until it was all 

forgotten . . . until it was too late to hold a 

fresh inquest, after all those months. ... I never, 
never said a word, . . . O my God, no-no, no- 

no! . . . 

“When I knew, Roelofsz, I couldn't stay in 
India. I felt that I must see Harold, see you, see 
Mamma, see Takma . . .’* * 

“ I don’t know, I had to see you all. Oh, how 
they must have suffered. I am sorry for her, for 
Takma. I had to see you, to talk to you about it. 
I knew that you . . . ” 

“ Did the mantri know . . . about me? " 

“ Through Ma-Boeten.” 

“ Yes, she knew everything, the hag! ” 

“ She held her tongue for years. I did not even 
know that she was alive. And then she told her 
son. She thought Mamma was dead. The son 
knew some of the servants at our house. Fle got to 
know that Mamma was still alive. . . 

“ O my God, O my God, yes-yes 1 ” 

“ I give him so much a month.” 

“ Until Mamma dies? ” 

“Yes . . . until she dies! ” 

“ O my God, O my God, yes-yes 1 ” 

“ But Roelofsz, what you did not know . . .” 
“What . . . What? . . . What I 

know? ” 

“ What you did not know is that Harold . . .” 


264 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

“ Harold? Your brother? ” 

^^Knewf ...” 

“ Harold knew? ” 

“Yes! . . . Yes! . . .” 

“He knew? How did Harold know? O my 
God, O my God! How did Harold know?” 
“Harold knew . . . because he saw!” 

“ He saw? Harold saw?” 

“He was with them there, in the hills; he was 
in the pasangrahan?^ 

“Harold?” 

“ He was a boy of thirteen. He woke up! He 
saw Mamma, Takma and Ma-Boeten. He saw 
them carrying his father’s body. He stepped in 
his father’s blood, Roelofsz! He was thirteen years 
old! He was thirteen years old! He has never 
forgotten what he saw! And he has known it 
alwaysy all his life, all his life long! ” 

“O my God, O my God! . . . Oh, dear! 

.. . . Is it true? Is it really 

“ It’s true! He told me himself.” 

“ And he too . . . did he never tell? ” 

“ No, he never told! ” 

“ He’s a good fellow, yes-yes, one of the best of 
fellows. He does not want to bring disgrace r. . . 
oh, dear ... on his old mother’s head! . . . 
Daan, Daan . . . O my God! . . Daan, 

don’t you ever tell: don’t ever tell! ” 

“ No, I sha’n’t tell. I have spoken to you and to 
Harold, because I discuss everything with him: 


THINGS THAT PASS 265 

business matters and . . . and everything. He’s 
often helped me. . . . He helped me in India, 
in a nasty affair which I had out there ... in 
my time . . . yes . . . O Lord ... in my 
time! I’ve always discussed everything with 
Harold. I spoke to you because I knew that you 
knew. ...” 

“Well-well-well, yes-yes-yes . . . But Daan, 

Dercksz, don’t speak to any one else! ” 

“ No, no, I sha’n’t speak to any one else.” 

“ Not to Stefanie, not to Anton, not to 
Ottilie . . 

child! ...” 

“ Yes-yes, her child and his. Hush-hush, Daan, 
these are such old things, they’re all past! ” 

“ If only they were! But they are not past 
. . . as long as Mamma . . . andTakma . . .. 
are still alive! ” 

“ Yes-yes, yes-yes, you’re right: as long as they’re 
alive, those things are not past . . . But, oh, 

they are so old, he and she! It won’t last much 
longer. They’re passing, they’re passing, those 
things . . . slowly, but they’re passing. . . . 

Yes-yes, it’s so very long ago. . . . And people 
no longer trouble about any of us. . . . In the 

old days, yes, in the old days they, people, used to 
talk . . . about Mamma and Takma and the 

children, about Anton, about you . . . and 
that scandal in India . . . about Ottilie: they 
talked a great deal about Ottilie. .. That’s all 


266 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

past now . . it’s passing. .. . . We are old 

1.^ . . yes-yes . . . we are old. . . .” 

He sank back in his chair; his shapeless bulk col¬ 
lapsed over his slanting paunch, as if it would fall 
to the floor. 

At that moment there came from upstairs a shrill 
scream, suppressed but penetrating, as though it is¬ 
sued from an old throat that was being strangled; 
and almost at the same time the door upstairs was 
flung back and the companion called: 

“ Anna . . . Anna, come quick! ” 

Daan Dercksz was an old man, but a shiver ran 
down his back like ice-cold water. The doctor 
started, tottering on his legs, and at last drew up his 
shapeless bulk and cried: 

“ What is it? What is it? ” 

And the two men hurried up the stairs as fast as 
they could, with Anna behind them. 

There were two lamps alight in the drawing¬ 
room; and the old lady was sitting straight up in 
her chair. Her eyes, enormously dilated, stared 
from her head in tense dismay; her mouth remained 
open, after the scream which she had uttered, and 
formed a dark cavity; and she held one arm up¬ 
lifted, pointing with an outstretched finger to the 
corner of the room, near the china-cabinet. Thus 
she sat, as though petrified and rigid: rigid the 
staring expression and the open mouth, rigid all 
the old face, in extreme terror, petrified the gesture 
of the stiffly-held arm, as though she could never 


THINGS THAT PASS 267 

lower it again. And the companion and Anna, who 
now went up to her together excitedly, asked: 

“ Mevrouw, mevrouw, what’s the matter? 
Aren’t you well? Aren’t you well?” 

*^The-ere!*^ stammered the old woman. 

There! . . . There! 

And she stared and kept on pointing. The two 
men had appeared in the doorway and instinctively 
they all turned their eyes to the corner, near the 
china-cabinet. There was nothing to be seen save 
by the eyes of the old lady, nothing save what she 
saw there—and she alone saw it—rising before her, 
nothing save what she saw rising in a paroxysm of 
the remorse that had overwhelmed her for years 
and years . . . until suddenly she saw again, saw 
for ten or twenty seconds, in which she became petri¬ 
fied and rigid, while the old blood froze in her 
veins. She now received a shock; her hand fell in 
her lap; she herself dropped back against the straight 
pillow of her high-backed chair and her eyes 
closed . . . 

“ The mistress has been taken like this before,” 
said old Anna, in a whisper. 

They all, all except Daan Dercksz, knew that she 
had been taken like that before. They crowded 
round her. She had not fainted. Soon she opened 
her eyes, knew the doctor, knew the two women, 
but did not know her son Daan. She glared at 
him and then gave a sudden shiver, as if she had 
been struck by a resemblance. 


268 


THINGS THAT PASS 


“Mother! Mother!” cried Daan Dercksz. 

She still stared, but she now realized that he was 
not a materialization of what she had just seen, 
realized that he was a son who resembled his father, 
the man whom she had first loved and then hated. 
Her fixed look died away; but the wrinkles in her 
face, in the later paroxysm of shuddering, remained 
motionless In their deep grooves, as though etched 
and bitten In. 

Anna stroked her hand and wrist with the soft, 
regular movement of a light massage, to restore 
her consciousness entirely . . . until the old 

blood melted and flowed again. 

“To bed,” murmured the old lady. “To 
bed. ...” 

The two men went away, leaving her to the care 
of the women. At the bottom of the stairs, the 
dimly-lighted ground-floor shivered, full of shadow 
silent as the grave. Daan Dercksz took Roelofsz’ 
arm, while the doctor hobbled laboriously down 
the stairs, from the bad leg on to the sound leg. 

“What was it she saw?” asked Daan Dercksz. 

“Ssh!” said the old doctor. “Yes-yes . . 

yes-yes . . .” 

“ What did she see? ” 

“ She saw . . . Dercksz; she saw . . .. your 
father! . . .” 

In the kitchen the cat sat mewing with fright. 


CHAPTER XXII 


Aunt Adele Takma, with her key-basket on her 
arm, came fussing quietly from the dining-room into 
the passage, for she had seen the postman and 
was hoping for a letter from Elly. Lot and Elly 
were at Florence, both of them working busily at 
the Laurentiana and the Archives, where Lot was 
collecting materials for an historical work on the 
Medicis. They had been as far as Naples and, 
on the homeward journey, tired of so much sight¬ 
seeing—Italy was quite new to Elly—they had 
stopped at Florence, settled down in a pension and 
were now working together. Elly seemed happy 
and wrote enthusiastic letters. 

Aunt Adele looked in the letter-box. Yes, there 
was a letter from Elly, a letter for Grandpapa. 
Aunt Adele always read the letters out to Grand¬ 
papa: that was so nice; and after all the letter was 
for her too. Yes, the children were sure to be 
away three months longer—it was the beginning of 
January now—and then the plan was that they 
would quietly take up their quarters with Steyn 
and Mamma, for a little while, to see if it answered; 
and, if it did not answer, they would quietly turn 
out again and go their own way: they were still 
keen on travelling and were not yet anxious for a 


270 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

settled home. Ottilie was in London, where she had 
her two boys, John and Hugh Trevelley: Mary 
was in India and married. Mamma had been quite 
unable to stand it by herself; and there was cer¬ 
tainly no harm in her going to look up her two 
sons ... if only those two sons had not been 
such sharks. They were always wanting money: 
Aunt Adele knew that from Elly and Lot. 

Aunt Adele finished what she had to do down¬ 
stairs, spoke to the cook, locked the store-cupboard, 
smoothed a tablecloth here, put a chair straight 
there, so that she need not come down again and 
might have time to read Elly’s letter to the old gen¬ 
tleman at her ease. He always liked hearing Elly’s 
letters, because she wrote in a clever and sprightly 
style; they always gave him a pleasant morning; 
and he often read them over and over again after 
Aunt Adele had read them out to him. 

Aunt Adele now went upstairs, glad at having the 
letter, and knocked at the door of the old gentle¬ 
man’s study. He did not answer and, thinking that 
he had gone to his bedroom, she moved on there. 
The door was open and she walked in. The door 
between the bedroom and the study was open and 
she walked in. The old man was sitting in his 
usual chair, in front of the writing-table. 

He was asleep. He sat limply in his chair; and 
it struck her how very small he looked, as though 
he had shrunk in his sleep. His eyes appeared to 
be closed and his hand lay on an open drawer of 


THINGS THAT PASS 


271 

his desk. A waste-paper-basket stood beside him; 
other papers and letters lay scattered over the 
table. 

“ He’s asleep,” she said to herself. 

And, so as not to wake him, she stole away on 
tiptoe through the open door. She did not wish 
to disturb his rest, if he did not wake of himself 
through the mere fact of her entering. He was so 
old, so very old. . . . 

She was sorry at having to wait before reading 
Elly’s letter. She had nothing more to do, her 
housekeeping-duties were finished; the two servants 
were quietly doing their work. And Aunt Adele 
sat down by the window in the dining-room, with 
her key-basket beside her, glad that everything 
was nicely tidied, and read the morning paper, which 
had just come: she would take it up to him presently. 
It was snowing outside. A still white peace 
slumbered through the room and through the 
house. The voice of one of the maids sounded for a 
moment and died away towards the kitchen. Aunt 
Adhle quietly read the four pages of the news¬ 
paper. 

Then she got up, took her basket, the letter and 
the paper and went upstairs once more. She 
knocked at the door of the study. But the old man 
did not reply. She now opened the door. He was 
still sitting in his chair, in the same attitude of sleep 
as just now. But he looked even more shrivelled 
—oh, so very small!—in his short jacket. 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


272 

Aunt started and came nearer to him. She saw 
that his eyes were not closed but staring glassily 
into distant space. . . . Aunt Adele turned pale 

and trembled. When she was close to the old gentle¬ 
man, she saw that he was dead. 

He was dead. Death had overtaken him and a 
slight touch had sufficed to make his blood stand 
still for good in his worn veins. He was dead and, 
as it would seem, had died without a struggle, 
merely because death had come and laid a chill 
finger on his heart and head. 

Aunt Adele trembled and burst into sobs. She? 
rang the bell and called out in fright for the maids, 
who came running up at once, the two of them. 

“ The old gentleman is dead! ” cried Aunt Adele, 
sobbing. 

The two servants also began to cry; they were 
three women all alone. 

“ What shall we do, miss? ” 

“ Keetje,” ^ said Aunt Adele, “ go straight to 
Dr. Thielens and then on to Mr. Steyn de Weert. 
I don’t know of any one else. Your master had no 
relations. But Mr. Steyn de Weert is sure to help 
us. Take a cab and go at once. Bring Mr. Steyn 
straight back with you. Mrs. Steyn is in London. 
Go, Keetje, go, quick! ” 

The maid went, crying. 

“ He’s dead,” said Aunt Adde. “ The doctor 
can do nothing for him, but he must give a 
^ Kate, Kittie. 


THINGS THAT PASS 


273 

certificate. Door/ you and I will lay the master on 
his bed and undress him gently. . . 

They lifted the old man out of the chair, Aunt 
Adde taking his head, Door his feet: he weighed 
nothing in the women’s hands. He was so light, he 
was so light! They laid him on the bed and began 
to undress him. The jacket, when they hung it over 
a chair, bulged out behind, retained the shape of the 
old man’s back. 

Keetje had found Steyn de Weert at home; and 
he came back with her in the cab: they left word 
at Dr. Thielens’ house; the doctor was out. Aunt 
Adele met Steyn in the hall. A still, white peace 
dozed through the big house downstairs; outside, 
the snow fell thicker than ever. 

“ I knew of no one but you, Steyn! ” cried Aunt 
Adele, sobbing. “ And I also sent for you because 
I knew—the old gentleman told me so—that you’re 
his executor. Yes, he’s dead. He went out like a 
candle. . . . This morning, I brought him his 

breakfast, as usual. Then he went and sat at his 
table, looking through some papers. I got a letter 
from Elly and came upstairs and found him . . . 
asleep, as I thought. I went away, so as not to wake 
him. But, when I came back, he was still sitting 
like that. He was dead. He is dead, Steyn. . . . 
He was close upon ninety-four.” 

Steyn remained with Aunt Adele until the doctor 
had been and signed the death-certificate; Steyn 
^ Dora. 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


274 

would see to everything that had to be done. He 
telegraphed to London to his wife: Aunt Adele 
asked him to do this; he telegraphed to Florence 
to Lot and Elly: they certainly could not get back 
to the Hague in time for the funeral. And he went 
on at once to his brother-in-law Harold Dercksz, 
whom he found at home after lunch: 

“ Harold,” he asked, “ what are we to do about 
Mamma? We can’t tell her, can we? ” 

Harold Dercksz had sunk back into his chair. 
It was one of his bad days, he was moaning with 
anguish and, though he did not complain, his face 
was wrung painfully and his breath came in dull 
jerks. 

“Is .. . is the old man . . dead?” he 

asked. 

He said nothing more, sat moaning. 

“ Do you feel so rotten?” asked Steyn. 

Harold Dercksz nodded. 

“ Shall I send for Dr. Thielens to come and see 
you ? ” 

Harold Dercksz shook his head: 

“ There’s nothing he can do. Thank you, Frans. 
I know what to do for it: the great thing is to pay 
no attention to it. . . .” 

He was silent again, sat staring in front of him, 
holding his hand before his eyes because the light 
outside, reflected by the snow, hurt his face. And 
he went on breathing with dull, irregular jerks. 

. . The old man was dead. . . . The old 


THINGS THAT PASS 


275 


man was dead. ... At last. . c. . The 
Thing, the terrible Thing was passing, was not 
yet past, was trailing, rustling, staring at him with 
its fixed, spectral eyes, which he had known ever 
since his childhood; but it was passing, passing. 
. . . Oh, how he had looked and looked for the 

old man’s death! He had hated him, the murderer 
of his father, who had been dear to him when a 
child; but, first as a child, afterwards as a young 
man, he had been silent, for his mother’s sake, had 
been silent for sixty years. Only now, quite lately, 
he had spoken to Daan, because Daan had come 
from India in dismay, knowing everything, know¬ 
ing everything at this late date, after the death of 
the hahoe, who had spoken to her son, the mantri. 
. . . He had hated him, in his secret self, hated 

his father’s murderer. Then his hatred had cooled, 
he had come to understand the passion and the 
self-defence of the crime; then he had felt pity for 
the old man, who had to carry the burden of his 
remorse for all those years; then his pity had grown 
into compassion, deep, quivering compassion for 
both of them, for Takma and for his mother. . . . 

“ Give him a stab; rather he than you! ” 

Oh, that passion, oh, the hatred, of years ago, 
in the woman that she had then been, a still young 
and always attractive woman, she who was now 
dragging out the last years of her life: did she 
remember? Did she remember, as she sat in her 
straight-backed chair, in that red twilight of the 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


276 

window-curtains? . . . He, Harold Dercksz, had 
longed for the death of Takma, longed for the 
death of his mother ... so that for both of 
them, the old people, the thing, the terrible Thing 
might have passed entirely and plunged into the 
depths of what had been. . . . He had longed; 

and now . . . now the old man was dead! 

Harold Dercksz breathed again: 

“ No, Frans,” he said, in his soft, dull voice, “ we 
cannot tell Mother. . . Remember how very 

old she is. . . .” 

“So I thought. We must keep the old man’s 
death from her at any rate. ... It won’t be 
possible to keep it from Dr. Roelofsz . . . but 
it will be a blow to him.” 

“ Yes,” said Harold Dercksz. “ You’ve tele¬ 
graphed to Ottilie? ” 

“ Adde said I was to.” 

“Yes,” said Harold Dercksz. “She’s .. c.i n 
she’s his daughter.” 

“ Did she know it? We never spoke of it.” 

“ I never spoke of it to Mamma either. I be¬ 
lieve Ottilie suspected it. You’re the executor. . . .” 

“ So Adde said.” 

“ Yes,” said Harold Dercksz. “ He’ll have left 
most of his money ... to Elly . . . and to ^ 

Ottilie. When’s the funeral? ” 

“ Monday.” 

“ Lot and Elly won’t be here.” 

“ No. It won’t be possible to wait for them.” 


THINGS THAT PASS 


277 

“ Will the funeral procession go through the 
Nassaulaan? ” 

“ It’s on the way to the cemetery.” 

“ You had better let it go round . . . not 

past Mamma’s house. She’s always sitting at the 
window.” 

“ I’ll arrange that.” 

‘‘How soon can Ottilie be here?” 

“ She can take the night-boat this evening.” 

“ Yes, she’s sure to do that. She suspects . . . 
she suspects it all; she was very fond of the old man 
and he of her.” 

“ I must go, Harold. Would you mind telling 
Dr. Roelofsz? ” 

“ I’ll do that certainly. If I can be of any further 
use . . .” 

“ No, thank you.” 

“ Let us meet at Mother’s this afternoon. We 
must warn the family as far as possible not to drop 
the least hint before Mamma; we must keep it from 
her. The shock would kill her. . . . ” 

And Harold thought to himself that, if only she 
were dead, then the Thing would be past; but they 
had no right to murder her. 

When Steyn opened the door, he ran against Ina 
in the passage. She had been at the window and 
seen him come; and, curious to know what he 
wanted to talk about with her father, she had crept 
upstairs and listened casually. 

“Good-morning, Steyn,” she said: she did not 


278 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

call him uncle because of the very slight difference be¬ 
tween their ages. “Has anything happened?” 

She knew before she asked. 

“ Old Mr. Takma is dead.” 

“ Ina,” said her father, “ be sure not to say a 
word to Grandmamma. We want to keep it from 
her. It is such a blow for the old lady that it might 
be the death of her. . . .” 

“ Yes,” said Ina, “ we won’t say anything to 
Grandmamma. Mr. Takma was well off, wasn’t he ? 
I suppose Elly will get everything? . . .” 

“ I don’t know,” said Steyn. “ Probably.” 

“ Lot and Elly have become rich all of a sudden.” 

“Remember, Ina, won’t you?” said her father. 

He shook hands with Steyn and went straight 
off to Roelofsz’. 

“ Did he die during the night? ” asked Ina. 

Steyn gave the details. He let out that he had 
telegraphed to Lot and to his wife. Aunt Ottilie. 

“Why Aunt Ottilie?” 

“Because . . .” said Steyn, hesitating, regret¬ 
ting his slip of the tongue. “ It’s better she should 
be there.” 

Ina understood. Aunt Ottilie was old Takma’s 
daughter: she was sure to get a legacy too. 

“ How much do you think the old man will leave? 
. . . Haven’t you any idea? Oh, not that it in¬ 

terests me to know: other people’s money-matters 
are le moindre de mes soucis! . . . Don’t you 

think Papa very depressed, Steyn? He has been so 


THINGS THAT PASS 279 

depressed since he saw Uncle Daan again. . . . 
Steyn, don’t yow know why Uncle Daan has come 
to Holland?” 

She was still yearning with curiosity and re¬ 
mained ever unsatisfied. She went about with her 
gnawing hunger for days and weeks on end; she 
did not know to whom to turn. The craving to know 
was constantly with her. It had spoilt her sleep 
lately. She had tried to start the subject once more 
with Aunt Stefanie, to get behind it at all costs; 
but Aunt Stefanie had told her firmly that she— 
whatever it might be —refused to know, because 
she did not want to have anything to do with old 
sins and things that were not proper; even though 
they had to do with her mother, they did not con¬ 
cern her. It was Hell lying in wait for them; 
and, after Aunt Stefanie’s penitential homily, Ina 
knew that she would get nothing out of her aunt, 
not even the hazy recollection that might have 
loomed for a moment before her aunt’s eyes. What 
was it, what could it be that Papa had known for 
sixty years, that Uncle Daan had learnt quite lately 
and that had brought him to Holland? Oh, to 
whom, to whom was she to turn? 

No, Steyn knew nothing and was surprised at 
her question, thinking that Daan must have had 
business to discuss with Harold, as usual. And he 
went away, hurried off to Stefanie, to Anton, to 
Daan and Floor, to the Van Welys; and he im¬ 
pressed upon all of them that the old man’s death 


280 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

must be kept from Mamma. They all promised, 
feeling one and the same need, as children, to keep 
from their mother the death of the man to whom 
she had remained so long attached, whom she had 
seen sitting opposite her, almost every day, on a 
chair by the window. And Steyn arranged with 
all of them merely to say that Mr. Takma was un¬ 
well and not allowed out . . . and to keep it 

up, however difficult it might be in the long run. 

Then Steyn went to Aunt Adele; and she asked ; 

“ Couldn’t we tidy up those papers in the old 
gentleman’s study, Steyn? It’s such a litter. 
They’re all lying just as he left them.” 

“ I’d rather wait till Lot and Elly are back,” said 
Steyn. “ All you have to do is to lock the door of 
the room. There’s no need to seal anything up. 
I’ve spoken to the solicitor.” 

He went away; and Aunt Adele was left alone 
in the house of death, behind the closed shutters. 
The old lady, over in the Nassaulaan, so close by, 
never saw any one except her children and grand¬ 
children: she would not be told. Monday was the 
funeral. Lot and Elly could not be expected home 
before Wednesday. It was hard on them, poor 
children, to be disturbed like that in Italy, in th-e 
midst of their work. But still Elly was—to the out¬ 
side world—the old man’s only relation; and she was 
his heiress. . . . 

Aunt Ad^e was not grasping. The old man was 
sure to have left her a handsome legacy: she felt 


THINGS THAT PASS 


281 


certain of that. What would upset her was to have 
to leave the big house: she had lived there so long, 
had looked after it so very long for the old gentle¬ 
man. She was fond of it, was fond of every piece 
of furniture in it. . . . Or would Elly keep the 

house on? She thought not: Elly considered it 
gloomy; and it would be too big, thought Aunt 
Adde, for Elly was no doubt sharing the money 
with Ottilie Steyn. ... Of course, people would 
talk, though perhaps not so very much; the old 
gentleman had, so to speak, become dead to the 
outside world, with the exception of the Dercksz 
family; and, except Dr. Roelofsz, all his con¬ 
temporaries were dead. The only survivors of 
his period were the old lady and the doctor. . . . 
Yes, she. Aunt Adele, would certainly have to leave 
the house; and the thought brought tears to her 
eyes. How beautifully it was kept, for such an old 
place! What she regretted was that Steyn had not 
consented to tidy up the papers in the study. He 
had locked the door and given her the key. That 
was the only room, in all the tidy house, with litter 
and dust in it. Next to the study, in his bedroom, 
lay the old gentleman: he was to be put into his 
coffin that evening; Steyn and Dr. Thielens would 
be there then. The whole house was quiet and 
tidy around the dead man, except for the dust and 
litter in the study. The thought irritated Aunt 
Adele. And, that afternoon, she took the key and 
went in. The room had remained as it was when 


282 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


they lifted the old gentleman out of his chair—so 
light, oh, so light!—and laid him on his bed and 
undressed him. . . . 

Aunt Adele opened the windows: the cold wintry 
air entered and she drew her woollen cape closer 
over her shoulders. She stood at a loss for a mo¬ 
ment, with her duster in her hand, not knowing 
where to begin. One of the drawers of the writing- 
table had been left open; there were papers on the 
table; a waste-paper-basket stood close by; papers 
lay on the ground. No, she couldn’t leave things like 
that; instead of a crime, it was a kindness to the old 
man who lay waiting in the next room, lifeless, to 
put a little order into it all. She collected what she 
found on the table and tucked it into a letter-wallet. 
She dusted the desk, arranged everything neatly, 
pushed the open drawer to and locked it. She picked 
up what lay on the floor; and she gave a start, for 
she saw that it was a letter torn across the middle, a 
letter torn in two. The old gentleman had been 
tearing up letters: she could see that from the paper- 
basket, in which the little, torn pieces made white 
patches. This letter had evidently dropped from 
his hand at the last moment of all, when death 
came and tapped him on the heart and head. He 
had not had the strength to tear up into smaller 
pieces the letter already torn in two; the two halves 
had slipped from his fingers and he himself had slid 
out of life. It touched Aunt Adele very much; 
tears came to her eyes. She remained staring ir- 


THINGS THAT PASS 283 

resolutely, with the two pieces in her hand. Should 
she tear them up? Should she put them away, in 
the wallet, for Steyn? Better tear them up: the 
old gentleman had intended to tear them up. And 
she tore the two pieces in four. . . . 

At that moment, an irresistible impulse forced 
her to glance at the uppermost piece. It was hardly 
curiosity, for she did not even think that she was 
holding in her hand anything more than a very in¬ 
nocent letter—the old gentleman kept so many—a 
letter, among a hundred others, which he had 
gradually come to the conclusion that he would do 
well to destroy. It was hardly curiosity: it was a 
pressure from without, an impulse from outside 
herself, a force compelling her against her honest 
conviction. She did not resist it: she read; and, as 
she read, the idea rose clearly within her to finish 
tearing up the letter and drop the pieces in the 
basket. 

Yet she did not do so: she read on. She turned 
pale. She was a simple-minded, placid woman, who 
had reached years of maturity calmly, with healthy, 
unstirred blood, foreign to all violent passion. 
Reading had left her soul untouched; and burning 
sentences, she thought, were invented by the authors 
for the sake of fine writing. The fact that words 
could be written down such as she now read, on 
paper yellow with age, in ink pale-red with age, 
struck her with consternation, as though a red 
flame had burst forth from smouldering ashes which 


284 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

she was raking. She never knew that such a thing 
could be. She did not know that those violent 
glowing words could be uttered just like that. They 
hypnotized her. She had sunk into the old man’s 
chair and she read, unable to do anything but read. 
She read of burning things, of passion which she 
had never suspected, of a melting together of body 
and soul, a fusion of souls, a fusion of bodies, only 
to forget, at all costs to forget. She read, in a 
frenzy of words, of a purple madness exciting itself 
in order to plunge and annihilate two people in each 
other’s soul and, with undiscovered kisses, to burn 
away and melt away in oblivion, in oblivion. . . . 

To melt into each other and never to be apart 
again. . . . To be together for ever. . . . To 
be inseparable for ever in unquenchable passion. 

. . . To remain so and to forget. . . . Es¬ 
pecially to forget, O God, to forget . . . that 

one night, that night! . . . And through the first 
passionate purple words there now began to flow 
the purple of blood. . . . Through the words 

of passionate love there now flowed words of pas¬ 
sionate hatred. . . . The frenzied joy that this 

hatred had cooled after all. . . . The jubilant 

assurance that, if that night could ever recur, the 
hatred would cool a second time! The mad words 
deceived themselves, for, immediately after, they 
again writhed in despair and declared that never¬ 
theless, in spite of satisfied passion, the memory was 
as a spectre, a bloody spectre, that never left you. 


THINGS THAT PASS 285 

. . Oh, the hatred would always cool like that, 
for a third time, for a fourth time . . . but yet 

the bloody spectre remained horrible! ... It 
was maddening. ... It was maddening. . . . 

And the letter ended with an entreaty that he would 
come, come speedily, to blend with her in soul and 
body and, in the rapture of it, to forget and no 
longer to behold the spectre. At the bottom of the 
letter were the words, “ Tear this up at once,” and 
the name: 

“ OTTILIE.” 

Aunt Adele remained sitting motionless, with the 
four pieces in her hand. She had read the letter: 
it was irrevocable. She wished that she had not 
read it. But it was too late now. And she 
knew. . . . 

The letter was dated from Tegal, sixty years ago. 
Flames no longer flickered out of the words, now 
that Aunt Adele had read them, but the scarlet 
quivered before her terrified eyes. She sat huddled 
and trembling and her eyes stared at that quivering 
scarlet. She felt her knees shake; they would not 
let her rise from her chair. And she know. Through 
a welter of hatred, passion, jubilation, madness, pas¬ 
sionate love and passionate remorse, the letter was 
clear and conjured up—as in an unconscious impulse 
to tell everything, to feel everything over again, to 
describe everything in crimson clearness—a night of 
years and years ago, a night in silent mountains, 
by a dark jungle, by a river in flood, a night in a 


286 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


lonely pasangrahan, a night of love, a night of 
hatred, of surprise, of self-defence, of not knowing 
how, of rising terror, of despair to the pitch of 
madness. . . . And the words conjured up a 

scene of struggle and bloodshed in a bedroom, 
conjured up a group of three people who carried a 
corpse towards that river in flood, not knowing 
what else to do, while the pouring rain streamed 
and clattered down. . . . All this the words 

conjured up, as though suggested by a force from 
the outside, an impulse irresistible, a mystic violence 
compelling the writer to say what, logically speak¬ 
ing, she should have kept hidden all her life long; 
to describe in black on white the thing that was a 
crimxi, until her letter became an accusation; to 
scream it all out and to paint in bright colours the 
thing which it would have been safest to keep buried 
in a remorseful soul and to erase, so that not a 
trace remained to betray it. . . . 

And the simple, placid woman, grown to mature 
years in calmness of blood, sat dismayed at what 
had been revealed to her. At first, her dismay had 
shone red in front of her, dismay at an evocation 
of hatred and passionate love; and now, suddenly, 
there rose before her eyes the drawing-room of an 
old woman and the woman herself sitting at a 
window, brittle with the lasting years, and, opposite 
her, Takma, both silently awaiting the passing. The 
old woman sat there still; yonder, in the next room, 
lay the old man and he too awaited the morrow and 


287 


THINGS THAT PASS 

the last honours: for to-day everything was 
past. . . . 

O God, so that was the secret of their two old 
lives! So vehemently had they loved, so violently 
hated, so tragic and ever-secret a crime had they 
committed in that lonely mountain night and such 
blood-red memories had they dragged with them, 
always and always, all their long, long lives! And 
now, suddenly, she alone knew what nobody knew 1 
. . . She alone knew, she thought; and she shud¬ 
dered with dread. What was she to do with that 
knowledge, what was she to do with those four 
pieces of yellow paper, covered with pale-red ink 
as though with faded letters of blood? . . 

What was she to do, what was she to do with it 
all? . . . Her fingers refused to tear those four 

pieces into smaller pieces and to drop them into 
the paper-basket. It would make her seem an ac¬ 
complice. And what was she to do with her know¬ 
ledge, with what she alone knew? . . . That 

tragic knowledge would oppress her, the simple- 
minded woman, to stifling-point! . . . 

Now at last she rose, shivering. It was very 
cold in the aired room. She went to the window to 
close it and felt her feet tottering, her knees knock¬ 
ing together. Her eyes staring in dismay, she shook 
her head to and fro, to and fro. Mechanically, with 
her duster in her hand, she dusted here and there, 
absent-mindedly, constantly returning to the same 
place, dusting two and three times over. Mechani- 


288 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

cally she put the chairs straight; and her habit of 
neatness was such that, when she left the room, she 
was still trembling, but the room was tidy. She had 
locked up the torn letter. She could not destroy it. 
And suddenly she was seized with a fresh curiosity, 
a fresh impulse from without, a strange feeling that 
compelled her: she wanted to see the old man. 
. . . And she entered the death-chamber on the 

tips of her slippered toes. In the pale dim light, 
the old man’s head lay white on the white pillow, 
on the bed with its white counterpane. The eyelids 
were closed; the face had fallen away on either 
side of the nose and mouth in loose wrinkles of 
discoloured parchment; there were a few scanty 
grey hairs near the ears, like a dull silver wreath. 
And Aunt Adele looked down upon him, with eyes 
starting from their sockets, and shook her head to 
and fro in dismay. There he lay, dead. She had 
known him and looked after him for years. She 
had never suspected that. There he lay, dead; and 
in his dead relics lay all the past passionate love and 
hatred; surely too the past remorse and remem¬ 
brance. Or was there a hereafter yet to come, with 
more struggling and more remorse and penitence 
. . . and punishment perhaps? . . . 

Whatever he might have suffered within himself, 
he had not been fully punished here on earth. His 
life, outwardly, had flowed long and calmly. He 
had achieved consideration, almost riches. He had 
not had an ailing old age. On the contrary, his 


THINGS THAT PASS 289 

senses had remained unimpaired; and she remem¬ 
bered that he even used often to complain, laugh¬ 
ing in his genial manner—which was too pronounced 
to be sincere—that he heard everything and was 
far from growing deaf with age, that in fact he 
heard voices which did not exist. What voices 
had he heard, what voice had he heard calling? 
What voice had called to him when the letter, half- 
destroyed and too long preserved, dropped from 
the hand that played him false? . . . No, in this 
world he had not been fully punished, unless indeed 
his whole life was a punishment. ... A cold 
shiver passed through Aunt Adele: that a person 
could live for years beside another and not know 
him and know nothing about him! How long was 
it? For twenty-three years, she, the poor relation, 
had lived with him like that! . . . And the old 

woman also lived like that. . . . 

Shaking her head in stupefaction. Aunt Adele 
moved away. She clasped her hands together, gently, 
with an old maid’s gesture. She saw the old woman 
in her imagination. The old woman was sitting, 
dignified and majestic, frail and thin, in her high- 
backed chair. She had once been the woman who 
was able to write that letter full of words red 
with passion and hatred and madness and the wish 
to forget, in a fusion of the senses with him, with 
him who lay there so insignificant, so small, so old, 
dead now, after years and years. She had once been 
able to write like that! . . , 


THINGS THAT PASS 


290 

The words still burnt before the eyes of the stupe¬ 
fied elderly woman, placid in soul and blood. That 
such things were, that such things could be! ... i., i., 
Her head kept shaking to and fro. ^ ^ 


CHAPTER XXIII 


Next morning, Ottilie Steyn de Weert arrived at 
the Hook of Holland. She was accompanied by a 
young fellow of nearly thirty, a good-looking, well- 
set-up young Englishman, clean-shaven, pink and 
white under his travelling-cap, broad-shouldered in 
his check jacket and knickerbockers. They took the 
train to the Hague. 

Ottilie Steyn was under the influence of emotion. 
She could be silent when she wished and so she 
had never spoken about it; but she suspected, she 
knew almost for certain that Takma was her father 
and she had loved him as a father. 

“ He was always so good to me,’^ she said, in 
English, to Hugh Trevelley, her son. “ I shall miss 
him badly.” 

“ He was your father,” said Hugh, coolly. 

“ Not at all,” Ottilie protested. “ You know 
nothing about it, Hugh. People are always talk- 
mg. 

‘‘ He gave you the money to come to England.” 

Mamma Ottilie did not know why, but she was 
sometimes more sincere with Hugh than she was 
with Lot at home. She loved both these two sons, 
but she loved Lot because he was kind to her and 
she was really fonder of Hugh because he was 
291 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


292 

so good-looking and broad-shouldered and because 
he reminded her of Trevelley, whom she had really 
loved the best. She had never told Lot that the 
old gentleman was very generous to her, but she 
had sometimes said so to Hugh. She was glad to 
be travelling with Hugh, to be sitting next to him; 
and yet she was not pleased that Hugh had come 
with her. He never came to the Hague; and it 
only meant complications with Steyn, she thought, 
especially now. 

“ Hugh,” she said, caressingly, taking his hand 
and holding it between hers, ” Hugh, Mummy is so 
glad to be with you, my boy. I see you so seldom. 
Pm very glad. . . . But perhaps you would have 
done better not to come.” 

“ I daresay,” said Hugh, coolly, withdrawing his 
hand. 

“ Because of Steyn, you know.” 

“ I won’t see the fellow. I sha’n’t set foot in 
your house. Pll go to an hotel. Do you think I 
want to see that scoundrel? That cad . . . for 

whom you left my father? Not I! But Pve come 
to look after my interests. I sha’n’t make any 
trouble. But I want to know. You’re coming into 
money from that old man. He’s your father, I 
know he is. You’re sure to come into money. All 
I want is to know how things stand: whether he 
leaves you any money and how much. As soon as 
I know that, I shall go back. For the rest, I sha’n’t 
trouble any one, not even you.” 


THINGS THAT PASS 293 

Ottilie sat looking in front of her, like a child 
that has been rebuked. They were alone in the 
compartment; and she said, coaxingly: 

“ Boy, dear boy, don’t talk like that to your 
mother. I’m so glad to have you with me. I’m 
so very, very fond of you. You’re so like your 
father and I loved your father, oh, more than Steyn, 
ever so much more than Steyn! Steyn has wrecked 
my life. I ought to have stayed with your father 
and all of you, with you and John and Mary. Don’t 
speak so harshly, my boy. It hurts me so. Do 
be nice again to your mother. She has nothing, no¬ 
thing left in her life: Lot is married; the old man is 
dead. She has nothing left. No one will ever be 
nice to her again, if you aren’t. And in the old days 
. . . in the old days everybody used to be so very 
nice to her; yes, in the old days . . .” 

She began to cry. It came from her regret for 
the old man, from her anger about Lot, who was 
married, from her jealousy of Elly and her pity for 
herself. Her fingers, like a little child’s, felt for 
Hugh’s strong hand. He smiled with his handsome, 
clean-shaven mouth, thought her funny for such an 
old woman, but realized that she might have been 
very charming once. A certain kindness showed 
itself in him and, with bluff tenderness, putting his 
arm round her waist, he said; 

“ Come, don’t start crying; come here.” 

And he drew her to him. She crept up against 
him like a child, nestled against his tweed jacket; 


294 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

he patted her hand; and, when he kissed her on the 
forehead, she was blissfully happy and lay like that, 
with a deep sigh, while he, smiling and shaking his 
head, looked down on his mother. 

“ Which hotel are you going to? ” she asked. 

“The Deux-Villes,” he said. “Have you any 
more money for me ? ” 

“ No, Hugh,” she replied, “ I gave it you all, 
for the tickets and . . .” 

“All you had on you?” 

“ Yes, boy, really, I haven’t a cent in my purse. 
But I don’t want it. You can keep what’s left.” 

He felt in his pocket: 

“ It’s not much,” he said, rummaging among his 
change. “ You can give me some more at the 
Hague. One of these days, when I’m well off, you 
can come and live with me and enjoy a happy old 
age.” 

She laughed, pleased at his words, and stroked 
his cheeks and gave him a kiss, as she never did to 
Lot. She really doted on him; he was her fa¬ 
vourite son. For one word of rough kindness 
from Hugh she would have walked miles; one kiss 
from him made her happy, positively happy, for an 
hour. To win him, her voice and her caress un¬ 
consciously regained something of their former 
youthful seductiveness. Hugh never saw her as a 
little fury, as Lot often did. Lot whom In the past 
she had sometimes struck, against whom she even 
now sometimes felt an impulse to raise her quick 


THINGS THAT PASS 295 

little hand. She never felt that impulse towards 
Hugh. His manliness, a son’s manliness, mastered 
her; and she did whatever he wished. Where she 
loved manliness, she surrendered herself; she had 
always done so and she now did so to her son. 

On arriving at the Hague, she took leave of 
Hugh and promised to keep him informed, implor¬ 
ing him to be nice and not to do anything disagree¬ 
able. He promised and went his way. At home, 
she found her husband waiting for her. 

“ How did the old man die? ” she asked. 

He gave her a few brief details and said: 

“ I’m the executor.” 

“You?” she asked. “Why not Lot, as Elly’s 
husband? ” 

He shrugged his shoulders, thought it disingenu¬ 
ous in her to ask: 

“ I don’t know,” he said, coldly. “ The old man 
arranged it so. Besides, I shall do everything with 
Lot. He may be here in two days. The under¬ 
takers are coming to-night; the funeral will be to¬ 
morrow.” 

“ Can’t it wait for Lot?” 

“ Dr. Thielens thought it inadvisable.” 

She did not tell him that Hugh had come with 
her and, after lunch, she went to the Mauritskade 
and embraced Adele Takma, who was bearing up 
though the red letters still whirled before her 
stupefied eyes, like faded characters written in blood. 
Ottilie Steyn asked to see the old gentleman for 


296 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

the last time. She saw him, white in the‘pale, dim 
light, his old white face on the white pillow, with its 
scanty little wreath of hair, his eyelids closed, the 
lines on either side of his nose and mouth fallen 
away in slack wrinkles of discoloured parchment. 
She wrung her hands softly and wept. She had been 
very fond of the old man and he had always been 
exceedingly kind to her. Like a father . . . like 

a father . . . she always remembered him like 

that. Papa Dercksz she had never known. He, 
he had been her father. He had petted her even 
as a child; and afterwards he had always helped 
her, when in any sort of money trouble. If 
ever he reproached her, it had always been gen¬ 
tly . . . because she played with her life so: 

that was his expression at the time of her first 
divorce, from Pauws; of her second divorce, from 
Trevelley. She remembered it all: in India and at 
the Hague. He had liked Pauws very much; 
Trevelley he disliked; Steyn he had ended by pro¬ 
nouncing to be a good fellow after all. Yes, he 
had never reproached her except gently, because 
she was unable to manage herself and her love- 
affairs; and he had always been so exceedingly kind 
to her. . . . She would miss him, in the morning- 
room at Mamma’s, or on the days when she used to 
look him up in his study and he would give her a 
couple of banknotes, with a kiss, saying: 

“ But don’t talk about it.” 

He had never said that he was her father; she 


THINGS THAT PASS 


297 

had always called him Mr. Takma. But she had 
suspected; and she now felt it, knew it for certain. 
This affection, perhaps the last, was passing from 
her, had passed from her. . . . 

She went again in the evening, with Steyn, and 
Dr. Thielens came too, to be present when the 
body was put in the coffin. Aunt Adele said, no, 
she was not afraid of being in the house with the 
corpse, nor the maids either: they had slept quite 
well the night before. Next day also, the day of 
the funeral. Aunt Adele was composed. She re¬ 
ceived Dr. Roelofsz very quietly; the doctor panted 
and groaned and pressed his hands to his stomach, 
which hung crooked: he had intended to go to the 
cemetery with the rest, but did not feel equal to 
it; and so he stayed behind with Adele. The 
Derckszes came: Anton and Harold and Daan; 
Steyn came; D’Herbourg came, with his son-in-law 
Frits van Wely; and the women came too: Ottilie 
Steyn, Aunt Stefanie, Aunt Floor, Ina and the fair¬ 
haired little bride, Lily; they all remained with Dr. 
Roelofsz and Aunt Adele, who was quite composed. 
When the funeral procession was gone, the women 
said how sad it was for Grandmamma; and the old 
doctor began to cry. It was a pitiful sight, to see 
that old man, shapeless as a crumbling mass, huddled 
in a chair; to hear him exclaim, “Well-well . . . 
yes-yes ... oh, yes! ” to see him cry; but AdMe 
remained composed. Ottilie Steyn was not so; she 
wept bitterly; and they all saw that she was mourn- 


298 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

ing the death of a father, though not any of them 
had uttered the word, not even quietly among them¬ 
selves. 

Next morning, Steyn had an interview with the 
solicitor; and, when he came home, he said to his 
wife: 

“ Adele has a legacy of thirty thousand guilders; 
Elly and you get something over a hundred thousand 
each.” 

Mamma Ottilie sobbed: 

“ The dear good man! ” she stammered through 
her sobs. “ The dear good man! ” 

‘‘ Only we thought, Ottilie, the solicitor and I 
thought, that it would be best, for Mamma’s 
sake to speak of the inheritance as little as 
possible.” 

“ Does the old gentleman acknowledge me as his 
daughter? ” 

“ There is no question of acknowledging. He 
leaves you the half of his property; you and Elly 
share and share alike, after deducting Adele’s 
legacy. Only we thought, the solicitor and I, that, 
for Mamma’s sake, it would be better not to talk 
about it to any one who needn’t know.” 

“ Yes,” said Ottilie, “ very well.” 

“ You can be silent when you choose, you know.” 

She looked at him: 

“ I shall not talk about it. But why do you say 
that?” 

“ Because I see from the old gentleman’s books 


THINGS THAT PASS 299 

that he often used to give you money. At least there 
are entries: ‘ To O. S.’ 

She flushed up: 

“ I wasn’t obliged to tell you.” 

“ No, but you always used to say that you had 
found some money in your cupboard and make 
yourself out more careless than you were.” 

“ The old man himself asked me not to talk about 
that money. . . .” 

“ And you were quite right not to. I only say, 
you can be silent when you choose. So be silent 
now.” 

“ I don’t want your advice, thank you! ” she 
blazed out; but he had left the room. 

She clenched her fist: oh, she hated him, she hated 
him, especially for his voice! She could not stand 
his cold, bass voice, his deep, measured words. She 
hated him: she could have smacked his face, just to 
see if he would then still speak in cool, deliberate 
tones. She hated him more and more every day. 
She hated him so much that she longed for his 
death. She had wept beside the old man’s body; she 
could have danced beside Steyn’s! Oh, she didn’t 
yet realize how she hated him! She pictured him 
dead, run over, or wounded to the death, with a 
knife in his heart or a bullet through his temple 
. . . and she knew that she would then rejoice 

within herself. It was all because he spoke so coolly 
and deliberately and never said a kind word to her 
now and never caressed her I . . . 


THINGS THAT PASS 


300 

“ A hundred thousand guilders! ” she thought. 
“ It’s a lot of money. Ah, I’d rather the dear good 
man were still alive! And that now and then, in 
that kind way of his, he gave me a couple of hundred 
guilders. That’s what I shall miss so terribly. It’s 
true, I have some money now; but I have nothing 
else left!” 

And she wrung her hands and sobbed again, for 
she felt very lonely: the old man was dead; Hugh 
at the Hague, but in his hotel; fortunately, Lot was 
coming home that evening. . . t.. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


They arrived in the evening, on the day after the 
funeral, Lot and Elly, tired from the journey and 
out of harmony amid their actual sorrow. Aunt 
Adele—they were to stay in the Mauritskade—did 
not notice it at once; for she, after bearing up for 
the last two days, had thrown herself sobbing in 
Elly’s arms, sobbing as Elly had never seen her; 
and, when the sobs gave themselves free scope, her 
nerves gave out and she fell In a faint. 

“ The mistress has had such a busy, upsetting 
time,” said Door; and Keetje confirmed It; and they 
and Elly brought Aunt Adele round. 

‘‘ I’m better, dear. It’s nothing. Come, let’s go 
to the dining-room. I expect you two will be glad 
of something to eat.” 

She was still sobbing, overwrought, but she 
steadied herself with an effort. When they were 
seated at dinner, she noticed Lot’s and Elly’s lack 
of harmony. 

“Was Grandpapa burled yesterday?” asked 
Elly. 

“Yes, dear. Dr. Thielens dared not wait any 
longer.” 

“ Then It was really superfluous for us to come 
home,” said Lot, irritably. 


301 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


302 

His lips trembled and there was a set hardness 
in his usually gentle, pink-and-white face. 

“ We telegraphed to you to come,” said Aunt 
Adde, still crying, softly, “ because Elly will have to 
go into business-matters at once . . . ” 

“ Perhaps I might have come home by myself,” 
said Elly, “ for these matters of business. . . .” 

“ Steyn is the executor,” said Aunt Adele, gently, 
“ and he thought . . . ” 

“ Steyn? ” asked Elly. “ Why not Lot? ” 

“ The old man had settled it so, dear. . . . He’s 
the husband of Mamma . . who comes into 

money too . . . with you . .” 

“ Mamma? ” asked Lot. 

“ Yes,” said Aunt AdMe, a little embarrassed. 

They understood and asked no more questions, 
but it was obvious that they were out of harmony; 
their features looked both tired and hard. 

“ Mamma is coming this evening to see you,” 
said Aunt Adele. 

Elly shook her head: 

“ Pm dead-tired,” she said. “ I can’t see Mamma 
this evening. I’m going up to bed. Auntie.” 
ril see Mamma,” said Lot. 

Elly rose quickly and went upstairs. Aunt Adele 
followed her; and Lot went to another room to 
change his things. On the stairs, Elly began to 
cry: 

“Poor old Grandpapa!” she sobbed; and her 
voice broke. 


THINGS THAT PASS 


303 

They reached the bedroom. Aunt Adele helped 
her undress. 

“Are you so tired, dear?” 

Elly nodded. 

“Dear, is anything the matter? YouVe some¬ 
thing so hard about your face, something I’ve never 
seen there before. . . . Tell me, dear, you are 

happy, aren’t you?” 

Elly gave a vague smile: 

“ Not quite as happy perhaps as I expected. 
Auntie. . . . But, if I’m not, it’s my own fault.” 

Aunt Adele asked nothing more. She thought of 
the elated letters which had always given the old 
man such pleasant moments and reflected how de¬ 
ceptive letters could be. 

Elly undressed and got into bed. 

“ I’ll leave you to yourself, dear. ...” 

But Elly took her hand, with a sudden tenderness 
for the woman who had been a mother to her: 

“ Stay a little longer. Auntie . . . until Mamma 
comes.” 

“ Dear,” said Aunt Adele, feeling her way, 
“ you’re not put out, are you, because Mamma in¬ 
herits her share too. She’s his daughter, you 
know. . . .” 

“ Yes, Auntie, I know that. No, Auntie, really 
I’m not put out at that. I’m only tired, very tired 
. . . because everything that we set ourselves to 

do . . . seems useless. . . 

“ Darling,” said Aunt Adele, only half hearing. 


304 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

“ I also ... am tired, I am worn out. Oh, I 
wish I dared tell you! . . 

“What?” 

“ No, dear, no, I daren’t.” 

“ But what is it? ” 

“ No, dear, I daren’t. Not yet, not yet, perhaps 
later. . . . Hark, there’s the bell: that must be 

Mamma. . . . Yes, I hear Steyn’s voice too. . . . 
I’d better go downstairs, dear. . . . ” 

She left Elly, but was so much upset that down¬ 
stairs she once more burst into tears. . . . 

“ Elly is so tired,” she said to Ottilie, “ she’s gone 
to bed: I should leave her alone to-day, if I were 
you. . . .” 

But she herself was quite unhinged. She felt that 
the terrible secret which she alone knew—so she 
thought—weighed too heavily on her simple soul, 
that she was being crushed by it, that she must tell 
it, that she must share it with another. And she 
said: 

“ Steyn, Steyn. . . . While Lot is talking to 

his mother, don’t you know, I’d like to speak to 
you . . . if I may. . . .” 

“ Certainly,” said Steyn. 

They left the room. 

“ Upstairs? ” asked Steyn. 

“ Yes,” said Aunt Adele, “ in the old gentleman’s 
room.” . 

She took him there: it was cold, but she lit the 
gas. 


THINGS THAT PASS 305 

“ Steyn,” she said, “ I’m sorry for what I’ve done. 
I tidied up those papers a bit, there was such a 
litter. And on the ground was a ... a letter, a 
torn letter: the last one . . . which the old 

gentleman meant to tear up. ... I don’t know 
how it happened, Steyn . . . but, without in¬ 

tending to or knowing it, I . . .1 read that letter. 
. . . I would give all the money in the world not 
to have done it. I can!t keep it to myself, all to my¬ 
self. It’s driving me crazy . . . and slowly 

making me frightened . . . and nervous. . . . 
See, here’s the letter. I don’t know if I’m doing 
right. Perhaps I’d have done better just to tear the 
letter up. . . . After all, that was the old man’s 
wish. ...” 

She gave him the four pieces. 

“ But then it will be best,” said Steyn, “ for me 
to tear up the letter . . . and not read it. . . .” 

And he made a movement as though to tear the 
letter. But she stopped him: 

“ And leave me ,,, to carry about with me 
. . . all by myself . . . something that I can’t 

speak of! No, no, read it, in Heaven’s name . . . 
for my sake, Steyn ... to share it with me. . . .. 
Read it. ...” 

Steyn read the letter. 

Silence filled the room: a cold, lonely, wintry, 
silence, with not a sound but that of the flaring gas. 
From the faded characters of the frayed, yellow 
letter, torn in part, rose hatred, passion, mad jubila- 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


306 

tion, mad agony of love and remorse for a night of 
blood, an Indian mountain night, clattering with 
torrents of rain. With all of that these two had 
nothing to do; they were foreign to it; and yet the 
Thing that was passing brushed against their bodies, 
their souls, their lives. It made them start, reflect, 
look each other shudderingly in the eyes, strangers 
though they were to the Thing that was pass¬ 
ing. . . 

“ It is terrible,” said Steyn. “ And no one knows 
it? . . 

“ No,” said Aunt Adele, “ no one knows it except 
you and me. ...” 

But Steyn was not satisfied: 

“We ought not to have read that letter,” he said. 

“ I don’t know how I came to do it,” said Aunt 
Adele. “ Something impelled me to, I don’t know 
what. I’m not naturally inquisitive. I had the 
pieces in my hand to tear them up still smaller. I 
tore the two pieces into four. . . .” 

Mechanically, Steyn tore the four pieces into 
eight. 

“What are you doing?” asked Aunt Adele. 

“ Destroying the letter,” said Steyn. 

“ Wouldn’t you let Lot . . . ?” 

“ No, no,” said Steyn, “ what does Lot want with 
it? There! ...” 

He tore up the letter and dropped the pieces, very 
small, into the paper-basket. 

Before his eyes shimmered pale-red the bygone 


THINGS THAT PASS 


307 

passions that were strange to him; they loomed up 
before him; and yet he saw the room, wintry-cold 
and silently abandoned by the old man, with not a 
sound in it save the flaring gas. 

“ Yes,” said Aunt Adele, “ perhaps it’s better 
that no one should know . . . except ourselves. 

.. . . Oh, Steyn, it has relieved me . . . that 

you should know, that you should know! . . . 

Oh, how dreadful life is, for such things to hap¬ 
pen 1 ” 

She wrung her hands, shook her head from side 
to side. 

“Come,” said Steyn; and his great frame shud¬ 
dered. “ Come, let’s go. ...” 

Aunt Adele, trembling, turned out the gas. 

They went downstairs. 

The dark room remained wintry and silently 
abandoned. 

The letter lay in the basket, torn up very 
small, i.. i.. i-i 


CHAPTER XXV 


“ Oh dear! ” said old Anna, with a sigh. ‘‘ We can’t 
possibly keep it a secret from the mistress always 1 ” 

She moaned and groaned and, raising her two 
arms in the air, drove the cat back to the kitchen, 
because the passage was full enough as it was: Ina 
d’Herbourg had arrived with her daughter Lily van 
Wely and two perambulators; one was pushed by 
the little mother and the other by the nurse; and 
Lily and the nurse now shoved the perambulators 
into the morning-room, where Anna had made up 
a good fire, to welcome the family; and, while Lily 
and the nurse were busy, Ina talked to old Anna 
about the old gentleman’s death and Anna said that 
her mistress had not the least idea of it, but that, 
after all, that couldn’t go on forever. . . .. 

“Oh, what darlings, what sweet little dots!” 
said Anna, clasping her hands together. “ And how 
pleased the mistress will be that Mrs. Lily has come 
to show her the babies! Yes, I’ll let the old lady 
know. . . 

“Lily,” said Ina, “you go first with Stefje; I’ll 
come up afterwards with little Netta.” 

Lily took the baby out of the perambulator. The 
child whimpered a bit and crowed a bit; and the 
dear, flaxen-haired little mother, with her very 

308 


THINGS THAT PASS 309 

young little motherly laugh, carried it up the stairs. 
Anna was holding the door open and the old 
lady was looking out. She was sitting upright in 
her high-backed chair, which was like a throne, 
with the pillow straight behind her back. In the 
light of the early winter afternoon, which filtered 
through the muslin blinds past the red curtains 
and over the plush valance, she seemed frailer than 
ever; and her face, brightened with a smile of ex¬ 
pectation, was like a piece of lined white porcelain, 
but so vaguely seen under the even, hard-black, 
just-suggested line of the wig and the little lace cap 
that she did not seem to belong to the world of 
living things. The ample black dress fell in supple 
lines and hid her entirely in shadow-folds with 
streaks of brighter light; and, now that Lily en¬ 
tered with the baby, the old woman lifted from her 
deep lap her trembling, mittened hands, with fingers 
like slender wands, lifted them into a stiff and diffi¬ 
cult gesture of caress and welcome. Long cracked 
sounded the voice, still round and mellow with its 
Indian accent: 

“ Well, child, that’s a nice idea of yours, to bring 
the little boy at last. . . . That’s a nice idea. 

. . . That’s a nice idea. . . . Yes, let me have 
a look at him. . . . Oh, what a sweet baby! ” 

Lily, to let Great-great-grandmother see the baby 
well, had knelt down on a hassock and was holding 
up the baby, which shrank back, a little startled at 
the brittle, wrinkled face that made such an uncanny 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


310 

patch in the crimson dusk; but its little mother was 
able to hush It and it did not cry, only stared. 

“ Yes, Greatgranny,” said Lily, “ this Is your 
great-great-grandchild.” 

“Yes, yes,” said the old woman, with her hands 
still trembling in the air. In a vague gesture of hesi¬ 
tating caress, “ Pm a great-great-grandmamma. 
. . Yes, little boy, yes . . . Pm your great- 
great-grandmother. . . .” 

“ And Netta’s downstairs: I brought her too.” 

“Oh, your little girl! ... Is she here too?” 

“Yes, would you like to see her presently?” 

“ Yes, I want to see them both. . . . Both 

together, together. . . .” 

The little boy, hushed, looked with wondering 
earnestness at the wrinkled face, looked with a wa¬ 
vering glance of reflection and amazement, but did 
not cry; and, even when the slender, wand-like finger 
tickled him on his cheek, Lily was able to hush him 
and keep him from crying. It was a diversion too 
when Ina came upstairs with Netta on her arm: a 
bundle of white and a little pink patch for a face 
and two little drops of turquoise eyes, with a moist 
little munching mouth; and Lily was afraid that the 
little boy would start screaming and handed him to 
the nurse at the door: fortunately, for on the land¬ 
ing he opened his throat lustily, greatly perturbed 
in his baby brain by his first sight of great age. 
But the bundle of white and the little pink patch 
with the two little drops of turquoise munched away 


THINGS THAT PASS 


311 

contentedly with the moist little mouth and was even 
better-behaved than Stef je had been, so well-behaved 
indeed that the old woman was allowed to take it 
for a moment in her deep lap, though Lily remained 
on her guard and kept her hands under it. 

That’s made me very happy, dear,” said the 
old woman, “ to have seen my great-great-grand- 
children. Yes, Stefje is a fine little man . . . and 
Netta is a darling, Netta is a darling . 1.1 . 

It was time to say good-bye; and Lily carried 
off the pink-patched bundle of white, saying, in her 
laughing, young-motherly way, that the children 
must go home. Ina sat down. 

“ It has really made me happy,” the old woman 
repeated, “ to have seen that young life. For I 
have been very sad lately, Ina. It must be quite ten 
days since I saw Mr. Takma.” 

“ No, Granny, it’s not so long as that.” 

“ How long has he been ill then? ” 

“ Six days, seven perhaps.” 

“ I thought it was quite ten days. And Dr. 
Roelofsz comes so seldom too. . . . Yes, that 

chair by the window ... has been empty now a 
whole week. ... I thought it was ten days. . . . 
It’s cold, raw weather, isn’t it? . . .1 don’t feel 

it in here. . . . But, oh, even if that gets better 

. . . it will take a very long time . . . and 

Mr. Takma won’t come again this winter! . . .” 

Her dry old eyes did not weep, but her cracked 
voice wept. Ina could not find much more to say, 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


312 

but she did not want to go away yet. She had come 
with the children, in the hope of hearing something 
perhaps at Grandmamma’s. . . . She still did 

not know. She still knew nothing; and there was 
so much to know. There was first the great Some¬ 
thing, that which had happened sixty years ago: 
Grandmamma must know about it, but she dared 
not broach the Something at Grandmamma’s, afraid 
lest she should be touching upon the very Past. If 
it was anything, then it might make the old woman 
ill, might cause her sudden death. . . . No, Ina 

looked forward in particular to seeing any one 
who might call that afternoon, to having talks in 
the morning-room downstairs, for there were more 
things to know: how much Elly had come into; 
and whether Aunt Ottilie had also come in for her 
share. . . . All this was hovering in vagueness: 
she could not get to the bottom of it; she must 
manage to get to the bottom of it that afternoon. 

. . . So she sat on quietly; and the old lady, who 
did not like being alone, thought it pleasant when 
she made an occasional remark. But, when it lasted 
too long before any one else came, Ina got up, 
said good-bye, went downstairs, chatted a bit with 
Anna and even then did not go, but sat down in the 
morning-room and said: 

“ Sit down too, Anna.” 

And the old servant sat down respectfully on 
the edge of a chair; and they talked about the old 
man: 


THINGS THAT PASS 313 

“ Mrs. Elly is well-off, now,’’ said Ina. “ Don’t 
you know how much the old gentleman left?” 

But Anna knew nothing, merely thought—and 
said so with a little wink—that Mrs. Ottilie would 
be sure to get something too. But there was a ring 
at the door; and it was Stefanie de Laders, tripping 
along very nervously: 

“Doesn’t Mamma know yet?” she whispered, 
after Anna had returned to the kitchen. 

“ No,” said Ina, “ Grandmamma doesn’t know, 
but she sits looking so mournfully at Mr. Takma’s 
empty chair.” 

“Is there no one with her?” 

“ No, only the companion.” 

“ I have a great piece of news,” said Stefanie. 

Ina pricked up her ears; and her whole being 
was thrilled. 

^^What, Aunt?” 

“ Only think. I’ve had a letter from Therese . . 

“ From Aunt Therese in Paris? . . .” 

“ Yes, from Aunt van der Staff. She’s coming to 
the Hague. She writes that she felt something 
urging her, something impelling her, while she was 
saying her prayers—we know those Roman Catholic 
prayers!—something impelling her to come to the 
Hague and see Mamma. She hasn’t seen Mamma 
for years. She hasn’t been to the Hague for years, 
which wasn’t at all the thing. . . . What does she 
want to come here for now, exciting Mamma per¬ 
haps, with her popery, in her old age! ” 


314 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

It was a very great piece of news and Ina’s 
usually weary, well-bred eyes glistened. 

“What! Is Aunt Therese coming here?” 

It was a most important piece of news. 

“Could she know anything?” asked Ina. 

“What about?” 

“ Well, about—you know—what we were talking 
of the other day: what Papa has known for sixty 
years . . . and Uncle Daan. . . .” 

Aunt Stefanie made repeated deprecatory gestures 
with her hand: 

“ I don’t know . . . whether Aunt Therese 

knows anything about it. But what I do know, Ina, 
is that I mean to keep my soul clear of any sins and 
improper things that may have happened in the 
past. It’s difficult enough to guard one’s soul in 
the present. No, dear, no, I won’t hear any more 
about it.” 

She closed her beady bird’s-eyes and shook her 
nodding bird’s-head until her little old-lady’s toque 
jigged all askew on her scanty hair; and she almost 
stumbled over the cat before she hoisted herself 
upstairs, jolting and stamping, to go to her 
mother. 

Ina remained irresolute. She went into the 
kitchen. Anna said: 

“Oh, is that you, ma’am? Are you staying a 
little longer?” 

“ Yes . . . Mrs. Ottilie may come presently. 

.3 f . I want to speak to her.” 


THINGS THAT PASS 


315 

It was quite likely, thought Anna, that Mrs. 
Ottilie would come to-day. But, when there was a 
ring at the front-door, she looked out of the window 
and cried: 

“No, it’s Mr. Daan. . . .” 

Daan Dercksz stuck his parroty profile through 
the door of the morning-room, nervously, and, on 
seeing Ina, said: 

“I’ve brought bad news!” 

“ Bad news 1 ” cried Ina, pricking up her ears 
again. “ What is it. Uncle? ” 

“ Dr. Roelofsz is dead.” 

“Oh, no!” 

“ Yes,” said Uncle Daan to Ina, staring at him 
in dismay, and Anna, standing with the cat among 
her petticoats. “ Dr. Roelofsz is dead. An apo¬ 
plectic stroke. . . . They sent round to me first, 
because my pension was nearest. ... It seems 
he took Takma’s death very much to heart.” 

“ It’s dreadful,” said Ina. “ How is Grand¬ 
mamma to be told? It will be such a blow to her. 
And she doesn’t even know of Mr. Takma’s 
death. ...” 

“ Yes, it’s very difficult. . . . I’ve sent word to 
your father and I expect him here any minute; then 
we can talk over what we are to do and say. Per¬ 
haps somebody else will come to-day. . . .” 

“ Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear! ” sighed Anna. 

She looked at the stove, which was burning rather 
low, and, reflecting that perhaps there would be a 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


316 

good many using the morning-room that day, she 
shook the cinder-drawer: the fire began to glow be¬ 
hind the mica panes. 

“ Ah me! ” cried Ina. “ Grandmamma won’t 
survive them long now. . . . Uncle, do you know 
that Aunt Therese is coming to the Hague? Aunt 
Stefanie has had a letter. . . . Oh, if only she 

arrives in time to see Grandmamma! . . . Oh, 

what a terrible winter 1 . . . And Papa is looking 
so depressed. . . . Uncle,” she said—Anna had 
gone back to the kitchen, moaning and groaning 
and stumbling over the cat—“ Uncle, tell me: why 
has Papa been so depressed . . . ever since you 
came back to Holland? ” 

“Since I came back to Holland, dear? . . .” 

“ Yes, Uncle. There’s something that brought 
you back to Holland . . . something that’s made 
Papa so terribly depressed.” 

“ I don’t know, dear, I don’t know. . . . ” 

“ Yes, you do. . . . Pm not asking out of 

curiosity. Pm asking for Papa’s sake ... to help 
him ... to relieve him ... if he’s in trouble. 
... It may be business-matters . . . ” 

“ No, dear, it’s not business-matters. . . .” 

“ Well, then, what is it? ” 

“ Why, dear, it’s nothing, nothing at all.” 

“ No, Uncle Daan, there’s something** 

“ But then why not ask your father?” 

“ Papa refuses to speak about it.” 

“ Then why should I speak about it? ” cried Daan 


THINGS THAT PASS 


317 

Dercksz, put on his guard by Ina’s slip of the tongue. 
“ Why should I speak about it, Ina? There may be 
something . . . business-matters, as you say 

. . but it’ll be all right. Yes, really, Ina, don’t 
alarm yourself: it’s all right.” 

He took refuge in a feigned display of indigna¬ 
tion, pretended to think her much too curious about 
those business-matters and scratched the back of his 
head. 

Ina’s eyes assumed their well-bred, weary express¬ 
ion : 

“ Uncle, other people’s money-matters are le 
moindre de mes soucis, ... I was only asking 
you for an explanation . . . because of my love 
for my father.” 

“ You’re a good daughter to your father, we all 
know that, all of us. . . . Ah, there he is: he’s 

ringing! ” 

And, before Anna had time to go to the door, he 
had let Harold Dercksz in. 

“ Do you mean to say that Dr. Roelofsz is dead? ” 
asked Harold. 

He had received Daan’s note after Ina had gone 
out to take Lily’s children to their great-great-grand- 
mother. 

“ Yes,” said Daan, “ he’s dead.” 

Harold Dercksz sank into a chair, his face twisted 
with pain. 

‘‘ Papa, are you ill? ” cried Ina. 

“ No, dear, it’s only a little more pain . . .. than 


3i8 old people AND THE 

usual. . . . It’s nothing, nothing at all. . . . 

Is Dr. Roelofsz dead?” 

He saw before his eyes that fatal night of pour¬ 
ing rain: saw himself, a little fellow of thirteen, 
saw that group of three carrying the body and heard 
his mother crying: 

“ Oh, my God, no, not in the river! ” 

The day after, Dr. Roelofsz had held an inquest 
on his father’s body and certified death by drown¬ 
ing. 

“Is Dr. Roelofsz dead?” he repeated. “Does 
Mamma know? ” 

“ Not yet,” said Daan Dercksz. “ Harold, you 
had better tell her.” 

“I?” said Harold Dercksz, with a start. “I? 
I can’t do it. . . . It would mean killing my 

mother. . . . And I kill my mother. . . 

And he stared before him. . . . 

He saw the Thing. . . . 

It passed, spectral in trailing veils of mist, which 
gathered round its slowly, slowly moving form; the 
leaves rustled; and ghosts threatened to appear 
from behind the silent trees, to stop the Thing’s 
progress. . . . For, once his mother was dead, 

the Thing would sink into the abyss. . . . 

“I canU kill my mother!” Harold Dercksz 
repeated; and his martyred face became drawn with 
torturing pain. 

He clasped his hands convulsively. . . . 

“ And yet some one will have to tell her,” Ina 


THINGS THAT PASS 319 

muttered to Anna, who stood beside her, mumbling, 
speaking to herself, utterly distraught. 

But there was a ring at the bell. She. went to 
the door. It was Anton: this was the day when he 
came to pay his mother his weekly visit. 

“ Is there any one with Mamma? ” 

“ Aunt Stefanie,” said Ina. 

“What’s happened?” he asked, seeing her con¬ 
sternation. 

“ Dr. Roelofsz is dead.” 

“ Dead?” 

Daan Dercksz told him, in a few words. 

“ We’ve all got to die,” he muttered. “ But it’s 
a blow for Mamma.” 

“ We were just discussing. Uncle, who had better 
tell her,” said Ina. “Would you mind?” 

“ I’d rather not,” said Anton Dercksz, sullenly. 

No, they had better settle that among themselves: 
he was not the man to meddle in tiresome things 
that didn’t concern him. What did it all matter to 
him! He called once a week, to see his mother: 
that was his filial duty. For the rest, he cared 
nothing for the whole pack of them! . . . As it 

was, Stefanie had been bothering him more than 
enough of late, trying to persuade him to leave his 
money to his godchild, the Van Welys’ little Netta; 
and he had no mind to do anything of the sort: he 
would rather pitch his money into the gutter. With 
Harold and Daan, who did business in India to¬ 
gether and were intimate for that reason, he had 


OLD PEOPLE !A.ND THE 


320 

never had much to do: they were just like strangers 
to him. Ina he couldn’t stand, especially since 
D’Herbourg had helped him out of a mess, in 
the matter of that little laundry-girl. He didn’t 
care a hang for the whole crew. What he liked best 
was to sit at home smoking his pipe and reading 
and picturing to himself, in fantasies of sexual 
imagination, pleasant, exciting events which had hap¬ 
pened in this or that remote past. . . . But this 

was something that no one knew about. Those 
were his secret gardens, in which he sat all alone, 
wreathed in the smoke that filled his room, enjoying 
and revelling in indescribable private luxuries. 
Since he had become so very old that he allowed 
himself to be tempted into futile imprudent acts, as 
with the laundry-girl, he preferred to keep quiet, 
in his clouds of smoke, and to evoke the lascivious 
gardens which he never disclosed and where no one 
was likely to look for him. And so he chuckled with 
secret contentment, brooding ever more and more in 
his thoughts as he grew older and older; but he 
merely said, repeating his words: 

“ No, Pd rather not. . . . It’s very sad. . . . 
Is no one upstairs except Stefanie? Then I may 
as well go up too, Anna. ...” 

He moved towards the stairs. . . . 

Could Uncle Anton know anything, Ina won¬ 
dered, with fierce curiosity. He was so sullen al¬ 
ways, so reserved; no doubt he kept what he knew 
to himself. Should she go and ask him? And, while 


THINGS THAT PASS 321 

her father, sitting on his chair in pain, was still dis¬ 
cussing with Uncle Daan which of them had better 
tell the old lady that Dr. Roelofsz was dead, Ina 
hurried after her uncle in the passage—Anna had 
gone back to the kitchen—and whispered: 

“ Tell me. Uncle. What was it that hap¬ 
pened? ” 

“ Happened? When? ” asked Anton. 

“ Sixty years ago. . . You were a boy of fif¬ 
teen then. . . . Something happened then 

that ...” 

He looked at her in amazement: 

“What are you talking about?” he asked. 

“ Something happened,” she repeated. “ You 
must remember. Something that Papa and Uncle 
Daan know, something that Papa has always known, 
something that brought Uncle Daan to Hol¬ 
land. . . .” 

“ Sixty years ago?” said Anton Dercksz. 

He looked her in the eyes. The suddenness of 
her question had given such a shock to his self- 
centred, brooding brain that he suddenly saw the 
past of sixty years ago and clearly remembered that 
he had always thought that there must be some¬ 
thing between his mother and Takma, something 
that they kept concealed between themselves. He 
had always felt this when, full of awe, almost hesi¬ 
tatingly, he approached his mother, once a week, 
and found old Takma sitting opposite her, starting 
nervously with that muscular jerk of his neck and 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


322 

seeming to listen for something. . . . Sixty years 
ago ? . . . Something must, something must have 
happened. And, in his momentary clearness of 
vision, he almost saw the Thing, divined its presence, 
unveiled his father’s death, sixty years ago, was 
wafted almost unconsciously towards the truth, with 
the sensitive perspicacity—lasting but a second— 
of an old man who, however much depraved, had 
in his very depravity sharpened his cerebral powers 
and often read the past correctly. 

“Sixty years ago?” he repeated, looking at Ina 
with his bleared eyes. “ And what sort of thing 
could it be? ” 

“ Can’t you remember?” 

She was all agog with curiosity; her eyes flashed 
into his. He hardly knew her, with all her well- 
bred weariness of expression gone; and he couldn’t 
endure her at any time and he hated D’Herbourg 
and he said: 

“ Can’t I remember? Well, yes, if I think hard, I 
may remember something. . . . You’re right: I 

was a lad of fifteen then. . . . 

“ Do you remember ”—Ina turned and looked 
down the passage, looked at the open door of the 
morning-room, saw her father’s back huddled into 
a despondent curve—“ do you remember 
Grandmamma’s hahoe?** 

“ Yes, certainly,” said Anton Dercksz, “ I re¬ 
member her.” 

^ “Ma-Boeten?” 


THINGS THAT PASS 323 

“ I daresay that was her name.” 

‘‘Did she know anything?” 

“ Did she know anything? Very likely, very 
likely. . . . Yes, I expect she knew. . . .” 

“ What was it. Uncle? Papa is so depressed: Pm 
not asking out of curiosity. . . . ” 

He grinned. He did not know; he had only 
guessed something, for the space of a second, and 
had always suspected something between his mother 
and Takma, something that they hid together, while 
they waited and waited. But he grinned with pleas¬ 
ure because Ina wanted to know and because she was 
not going to know, at least not through him, how¬ 
ever much she might imagine that he knew. He 
grinned and said: 

“ My dear, there are things which it is better not 
to know. It doesn’t do to know everything that 
happened . . . sixty years ago. . ,. .” 

And he left her, went slowly up the stairs, re¬ 
flecting that Harold and Daan knew what the hidden 
Something was, the Something which Mamma and 
Takma had kept hidden between themselves for 
years and years. . . . The doctor had also known 
it, probably. . . . The doctor was dead, Takma 
was dead, but Mamma did not know that yet . . . 
and Mamma now had the hidden Thing to herself. 

. . . But Harold knew where it lay and Daan 

also knew where it lay . . . and Ina was looking 
for it. . . . 

He grinned on the landing upstairs before he 


THINGS THAT PASS 


324 

went in to his mother; he could hear Stefanie’s 
grating voice inside. 

ly he said to himself, “ don’t care a hang for 
the whole crew. As long as they leave me alone, 
with my pipe and my books, I don’t care a hang for 
the whole pack of them . . . even though I do 

come and see my mother once a week. . . . And 
what she is keeping to herself and what she did with 
Takma, sixty years ago, I don’t care a curse about 
either; that’s her business, their business maybe 
. . but my business it is not** 

He entered and, when he saw his mother, preter- 
naturally old and frail in the red dusk of the cur¬ 
tains, he hesitated and went up to her, full of 
awe. .. ..j ..j 


CHAPTER XXVI 


There was another ring; and Anna, profoundly 
moved by the death of Dr. Roelofsz and moaning, 
“Oh dear, oh dear!” opened the door to Ottilie 
Steyn de Weert and Adele Takma. Ina came out 
to them in the passage. They did not know of the 
doctor’s death; and, when they heard and saw Daan 
and Harold in the morning-room, there was a ge¬ 
neral outcry—subdued, because of Mamma upstairs 
—and cross-questioning, a melancholy dismay and 
confusion, a consulting one with another what had 
best be done: whether to tell Mamma or keep it 
from her. . . . 

“ We can’t keep it from her for ever,” said 
Ottilie Steyn. “ Mamma doesn’t even know about 
Mr. Takma . . . and now there’s this on top of 
it I Oh, it’s terrible, terrible 1 Adele, are you going 
up? ” 

“ No,” said Adele Takma, shrinking, in this 
house, now that she knew. “ No, Ottilie, I must 
go home. Mamma will have plenty of visitors with¬ 
out me.” 

She shrank from seeing the old lady, now that 
she knew; and, though she had walked to the house 
and walked in with Ottilie Steyn, she would not go 
upstairs. 


325 


326 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


“ Ottilie,” said Daan Dercksz to his sister, you 
had better tell her . . . about Dr. Roelofsz.” 

“I?” said Ottilie Steyn, with a start. 

But, at that moment, some one appeared in the 
street outside and looked in through the window. 

“ There’s Steyn,” said Harold, dejectedly. 

Steyn rang and was shown in. No one had ever 
seen him in so great a rage. He vouchsafed no 
greetings and marched straight up to his wife: 

“ I thought I should find you here,” he growled 
at her, in his deep voice. “ I’ve seen your son, who 
came over from London with you.” 

Ottilie drew herself up: 

‘‘Well?” 

“ Why need the arrival of that young gentleman 
be kept as a surprise for me to come across in the 
street? ” 

“Why should I tell you that Hugh came with 
me? ” 

“ And what has he come for?” 

“What has that to do with you? Ask him, if 
you want to know.” 

“ When he makes his appearance, it’s for money.” 

“ Very well, then it’s for money. Not your 
money, at any rate! . . .” 

They looked each other in the eyes, but Steyn 
did not want to go on discussing money, because 
Ottilie had inherited a part of Mr. Takma’s. Hugh 
Trevelley scented money, whenever there was any 
about; and it was not that Steyn looked upon his 


THINGS THAT PASS 327 

wife’s money as his own, but, as old Takma’s execu¬ 
tor, he thought it a shame that his wife’s son should 
be after it so soon. . . . He ceased speaking and 
his eyes alone betrayed his hatred; but Harold took 
his hand and said: 

“ Frans, Dr. Roelofsz is dead.” 

** Dead? ” echoed Steyn, aghast. 

Ina stared and pricked up her ears again. The 
afternoon had indeed been full of news. Even 
though she did not know about That, she was 
hearing other things: she had heard of the doctor’s 
sudden death, heard that Aunt Therese was coming 
from Paris, heard that Hugh Trevelley was at the 
Hague. And now she had very nearly heard about 
the old gentleman’s money. He must have left 
Aunt Ottilie something, but how much? Was it a 
big legacy? . . . Yes, the afternoon had really 

been crammed with news; and her eyes forgot to 
look weary and glistened like the glowing eyes of 
a basilisk. . . . 

But the brothers were consulting Steyn: what 
did he think? Tell Mamma of Dr. Roelofsz’ 
death, or keep it from her? . . . They reflected 

in silence. Out of doors, it suddenly began to pour 
with rain, a numbing rain; the wind blew, the clouds 
lowered. Indoors, the red light of the stove, burn¬ 
ing with a sound of gentle crackling behind the mica 
panes, gleamed through the falling dusk. Meanwhile 
the Thing passed . . . and stared at Harold, 

stared into his eyes, which were almost closed with 


328 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

pain. The Thing! Harold had known it since his 
early boyhood; Daan had known it for a few months 
and had come home from India, to his brother, 
because of it; upstairs, because of the old woman, 
who knew it, Stefanie and Anton both guessed it, 
but both refused to know it, lest they should be dis¬ 
turbed in the pursuit of their own lives; but down¬ 
stairs Adele and Steyn also knew it, because of the 
letter torn into two, four, eight pieces, the letter 
which the old man had been unable to destroy. In 
Paris, Therese, who was coming to Holland, knew 
it; in India, the mantri knew it. . . . But no one 
spoke of the Thing . . . which was passing; and 
Harold and Daan did not know that Adele and 
Steyn knew; and none of them knew that Therese 
in Paris knew; and Steyn and AdMe did not know 
that the mantri in India knew, that Daan knew and 
that Harold had known so long. . . . But Ina 

knew about the mantri and knew that there was 
something, though she knew nothing about Adele 
and Steyn and never for a moment suspected that 
they knew. . . . No one spoke of the Thing and 
yet the shadow of the Thing was all around them, 
trailing its veil of mist. . . . But the one who 

knew nothing at all and guessed nothing was Ottilie 
Steyn, wholly and sorrowfully absorbed in the 
melancholy of her own passing life: a life of adula¬ 
tion and fond admiration and passion, the tribute of 
men. She had been the beautiful Lietje; now she 
was an old woman and hated her three husbands, but 


THINGS THAT PASS 329 

she hated Steyn most! And, perhaps because she 
was so much outside the Thing’s sphere, Harold 
gently took her hand and, obeying an unconscious 
impulse, said: 

“ Yes, Ottilie, you . . . you must tell Mamma 
that Dr. Roelofsz is dead. It will be a great blow 
to her, but we cannot, we must not keep it from her. 
... As for Takma’s death, ah. Mamma will 
soon understand that, without any telling! . . .” 

His soft voice calmed the dismay and confusion; 
and Ottilie said: 

“ If you think, Harold, that I can tell her, I will 
go upstairs and try . . . I’ll try and tell her. 

. . . But, if I can’t do it, in the course of conver¬ 
sation, then I won’t . . . then I simply will not 

tell her. . . 

She went upstairs, innocent as a child: she did not 
know. She did not know that her mother, more 
than sixty years ago, had taken part in a murder, 
which that old deaf doctor had helped her to hush 
up. She knew that Takma was her father, but not 
that he, together with her mother, had murdered the 
father of her brothers, the father of her sister 
Therese. She went upstairs; and, when she entered 
the drawing-room, Stefanie and Anton rose to go, 
so that Mamma might not have too many visitors 
at a time. 

For that matter, it did not tire the old woman 
to chat—or to sit with a visitor in cosy silence for a 
little while—so long as the “ children ” did not all 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


330 

come at once. She was still slightly elated with the 
young life which she had seen, with Lily van Wely’s 
babies. She had talked about them to Stefanie and 
Anton, not knowing that the babies were their god¬ 
children: no one had told her that; and she really 
thought that little Netta’s name was Ottilitje and 
spoke of little Lietje: they knew whom she meant. 

Ottilie Steyn was left alone with her mother. 
She did not speak much, but sat beside her mother, 
who had taken her hand. . . . Ah, she herself 

felt touched! There, in that empty chair, at which 
the old woman kept staring, old Mr. Takma would 
never sit again. . . . Her father! She had 

loved him as a daughter loves her father! She 
was inheriting a hundred thousand guilders from 
him; but never again would he put a hundred- 
guilder note in her hand, in that kind way of his. 

It was as though the old woman guessed some of 
her daughter’s thoughts, for she said, with a move¬ 
ment of her hand towards the chair: 

“ Old Mr. Takma is ill.” 

“ Yes,” said Ottilie Steyn. 

The old woman shook her head mournfully: 

“ I don’t expect I shall see him again this winter.” 

“He will get well again. . . .” 

“ But even so he will not be allowed out. . 

“ No,” said Ottilie, feebly. “ Perhaps not, 
Mamma. . . .” 

She was holding the brittle, slender, wand-like old 
fingers in hers. . . . Downstairs, she knew, the 


THINGS THAT PASS 


331 

brothers were waiting; Stefanie probably also; Ina 
too. . . . Adele Takma had gone. 

“ Mamma,” she said, all of a sudden, “do you 
know that somebody else is ill? ” 

“ No, who?” 

“ Dr. Roelofsz.” 

“ Roelofsz? Yes, I haven’t seen him . . r. I 
haven’t seen him for the last two days.” 

“ Mamma,” said Ottilie Steyn, turning her sor¬ 
rowful little face—it was still a pretty face, with 
blue, child-like eyes—to her mother, “ it’s very sad, 
but . . . ” 

No, she simply could not say it. She tried to 
withdraw her sentence, not to complete it; but the 
old woman had at once seized the meaning of those 
few words: 

“ He’s dead? ” she asked, quickly. 

Her voice cut through Ottilie Steyn. She had 
not the strength to utter a denial: with a heart¬ 
rending smile on her face she nodded yes. 

“ A-ah! ” sighed the old woman, overwhelmed. 

And she stared at Takma’s chair. Her old, dried- 
up eyes did not weep; they merely stared, intensely. 
She remained sitting straight up in her chair. The 
past heaved up before her eyes; there was a great 
buzzing all around her. But she remained sitting 
upright and staring before her. 

“ When did he die? ” she asked, at last. 

Ottilie Steyn told her, in a very few words. She 
was crying, not her mother. The old, old woman 



OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


332 

saw herself as she was, more than sixty years ago. 
It was then that she had given herself to Roelofsz, 
so that he should not speak. . . . He had not 

spoken. . . . He had remained her friend, 

loyally, for all those long, long years, had shared 
the hideous burden of the past with her and Takma. 
. . . No, he had never spoken . . . and they 

had grown so very old, without . . . without 

anybody knowing. . . . Nobody knew it, not one 
of her children. . . . People had talked some¬ 

times, in the old days, had whispered terrible 
things: that was past. . . . Everything passed, 

everything passed. . . . Nobody knew, except 

Takma himself, now that poor Roelofsz was dead. 
He had exacted a high price . . . but he had 

always remained loyal. . . . 

Ottilie Steyn was crying, said nothing more, held 
her mother’s hand. ... It had grown very dark: 
the companion came in, to light the lamp. . . . 

The wind howled dismally; the rain dashed against 
the window-panes; a clammy dampness gave Ottilie 
an unpleasant sensation, as of something chilly 
passing over her in that room with its scanty fire, 
because the old woman could no longer bear a great 
heat. The hanging lamp above the table in the 
middle of the room cast down a circle of light; 
the rest of the room remained in shadow: the walls, 
the chair, the empty chair opposite. The companion 
had gone, when the old woman asked, suddenly: 

“And . . . and Mr. Takma, Ottilie?” 


333 


THINGS THAT PASS 

“ Yes, Mamma? . . 

“ Is . . .is he ill, also? . . 

The daughter was startled by the expression on 
her mother’s face; the dark eyes stared wide. . . . 

“ Mamma, Mamma, what’s the matter?” 

“ Is he ill . . . or is he . . . also . . 

“Ill? Yes, he’s ill too. Mamma. . . 

She did not finish. . . . 

Her mother was staring in front of her, staring 
at the empty chair opposite, in the shadow against 
the wall. Ottilie grew frightened; for her mother, 
stiffly and laboriously, now lifted a trembling arm 
from her lap and pointed with a slender, wand-like 
finger. . . . 

“ Mamma, Mamma, what is it?. . .” 

The old woman stared and pointed, stared and 
pointed at the empty chair. 

“ There . . . the-there! ” she stammered. 

“ There! ” 

And she continued to stare and point. She said 
nothing, but she saw. She did not speak, but she 
saw. Slowly she stood up, still staring, still point¬ 
ing, and shrank back, slowly, very slowly. . . . 

Ottilie rang the bell, twice; the companion rushed 
into the room at once; from below came sounds of 
confusion, faint exclamations, Anna’s “ Oh dear, 
oh dear, oh dear! ” and whispering voices. Ina, 
Daan and Stefanie came upstairs. But they did not 
enter the room; the companion made a sign that it 
was not necessary, . . . 



THINGS THAT PASS 


334 

The old woman’s stiff arm fell slowly to her side, 
as she stood. . . . But she was still staring and 

shrinking back, slowly. . . . 

She no longer seemed to see Ottille in her horror 
at what she did see. And all that she said, with 
unseeing eyes, though the rest of her consciousness 
remained, was: 

“To bed! . . . To bed! . . 

She said it as though she were very, very tired. 
They put her to bed, Anna and the companion. She 
remained silent, with her thin lips pressed together 
and her eyes still staring. Her heart had seen and 
. . . she knew. She knew that he, Takma, Emile 
—the man whom she had loved above everything, 
above everybody, in the dead, dead years—that he 
was dead, that he was dead. . i.j 


CHAPTER XXVII 


“ Come,” said Lot, gently, one morning, sitting 
with Elly in the sitting-room where he came so 
often to chat and have tea with her in the old days 
before they were married, “ come, let us talk sen¬ 
sibly. It put both of us out to be dragged back 
from Italy, from our work, while—very foolishly 
—we never thought that this might easily happen 
one day. Dear old Grandpapa was so very old! 
We thought that he would live for ever! . . . 

But now that we are here, Elly, and Steyn has told 
us that all the affairs are settled, we may as well 
come to a sensible decision. You don’t want to 
stay in this house; and it is, no doubt, too big, too 
gloomy, too old. . . . To live with Mamma 

. well, I did hint at it the other day, but 
Mamma talked of it so vaguely, as though she really 
didn’t much care about it. . . . Now that Hugh 
is with her she’s quite ‘ off ’ me: it’s Hugh here 
and Hugh there. It was always like that: it was 
like that in ‘ Mr.’ Trevelley’s time, when I was a 
boy and Hugh a child. John and Mary didn’t 
count for much either; and it’s just the same now. 

. . . So we won’t talk of setting up house to¬ 

gether. . . . But what shall we do, Elly? Look 
out for a smaller house and settle down? Or go 
335 


336 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

abroad again, go back to Italy? . . . You en¬ 

joyed it, after all, and we were working together 
so pleasantly. . . . We were very happy there, 

weren’t we, Elly? ” 

His voice sounded gentle, as it always did, but 
there was a note almost of entreaty in it now. His 
nature, his fair-haired person—was he not turn¬ 
ing a little grey at the temples?—lacked physical 
vitality and concealed no passionate soul; but there 
was a great gentleness in him: under that touch of 
laughing bitterness and vanity and superficial 
cynicism he was kind and indulgent to others, with 
no violent longings for himself. Under his feminine 
soul lay the philosophy of an artist who contem¬ 
plates everything around and within himself without 
bursting into vehemence and violence about anything 
whatever. He had asked Elly to be his wife, per¬ 
haps upon her own unspoken suggestion that she 
needed him in her work and in her life; and, often 
in jest and once in a way in earnest, he had asked 
himself why he was getting married, why he had 
got married and whether liberty and independence 
did not suit him better. But, since he had seen his 
sister’s happiness with Aldo at Nice and had also 
felt his own, softer-tinted happiness, very fervent 
and very true in his wistfully-smiling, neutral-tinted 
soul, which withdrew itself almost in panic under 
his fear of old age; since he had been able to seize 
the moment, carefully, as he would have seized a 
precious butterfly: since then it had all remained 


THINGS THAT PASS 337 

like that, since then his still, soft happiness had 
remained with him as something very serious and 
very true, since then he had come to love Elly as 
he never thought that he could love any one. And 
it had been a joy to him to roam about Italy with 
Elly, to watch her delight in that beautiful past 
which lay so artistically dead and, on returning to 
Florence, to plunge at her instance into earnest 
studies of the Medici period. How they had rooted 
and ransacked together, taking notes as they 
worked; how he had written in the evenings, feeling 
so utterly, so fondly happy in their sitting-room 
at the pension where they stayed! Two lamps, one 
beside Elly, one beside himself, shed a light over 
their papers and books; vases of fragrant flowers 
surrounded them; photographs pinned to the walls 
shadowed back the beauties of the museums in the 
gathering dusk. But, amid the beauties of that 
land and of that art, amid his happiness, amid 
the sunshine, an indolence had stolen over him; he 
often proposed a trip into the country, a drive, a 
walk to Fiesole, to Ema; he loved looking at the 
life of the people in the street, smiling at it with 
gladness: the Archives were cold and dusty; and he 
simply could not keep on working so regularly. And 
in the evening he would gaze across the Arno and 
sit blissfully smoking his cigarette at the window, 
until Elly also shut up her books and the Medicis 
drifted away in the changing lights of early evening 
outside and grew indistinct. . . . 




OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


338 

He had at first not noticed her disappointment. 
When he did, he was unwilling to pain her and he 
went back to his research. But he did it against the 
grain. That regular work did not suit him. It 
tired his brain; behind his forehead he plainly felt 
a reluctancy, a barrier that prevented something 
from entering . . . just as he had felt when, at 

school, he had to do a sum and failed, twice and 
thrice over. ... In addition, he was burning 
to write ephemeral essays: he had a superabundance 
of material, about the Medicis, about Benozzo 
Gozzoli’s frescoes at the Palazzo Riccardi, for in¬ 
stance. . . . Oh, to write an essay like that from 
afar, all aglow, with azure jewels and gold! But 
he dared not write the article, because Elly had once 
said: 

“ Don’t go cutting up into articles all that we have 
discovered.” 

As for Elly, she devoted herself earnestly and 
with masculine perseverance to her research and 
felt almost an inner inclination herself to write their 
book, a fine, serious historical study; but she under¬ 
stood that her art alone would not suffice for it. 
Whereas she thought that Lot had only to wish it 
and that they would then turn out something very 
good between them. ... But Lot felt that 
indolence impairing his powers more and more, 
felt his reluctance, like an impeding, resisting 
barrier, drawn right across his forehead; and one 
morning he said, a little nervously, that it was im- 


THINGS THAT PASS 339 

possible for him, that it was too difficult for him, 
that he couldn’t do it. She had not insisted; but 
a great disappointment had come over her and yet 
she had remained gentle and kind and had answered 
lightly and not betrayed the depth of her disap¬ 
pointment. . . . The books now remained closed, 
the notes under the paper-weights; and there was 
no more question of the Medicis. It produced a 
void about them, but Lot nevertheless felt happy and 
remained true to that soft blissfulness which had 
come to him smilingly and which cast a soft gloss 
over both his worldly cynicism and the overhanging 
dread. But Elly’s disappointment increased and be¬ 
came a great sorrow to her, greater even, she 
thought, than the sorrow which she had felt as a 
young girl at her broken engagement, at the loss of 
the man whom she had first loved. She was a 
woman to suffer more for another than for herself; 
and she suffered because she could not rouse Lot to 
great things. Her love for Lot, after her emotional 
passion for another, was very intellectual, more that 
of a cultured woman than of a woman all heart and 
senses. She did not see this so plainly herself; but 
her disappointment was very great that she could 
not lead Lot on to do great work; and the void 
around her widened, whereas he, in tne beauty of 
the land that was dear to him, in his gentle happi¬ 
ness, just felt the void around himself shrinking 
into a perspective in which his eyes wandered 
dreamily. . . . Not a bitter word was spoken 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


340 

between them; but, when they sat together, Elly 
felt herself grow very aimless. She was not of 
a contemplative mind. That wandering through 
Italian cities, that pleasant rambling among the 
beauties of the museums did not satisfy her, to whom 
action was a real and positive need. Her fingers had 
a nervous tremor of aimlessness between the pages 
of her Baedeker. She could not be always admiring 
and musing and existing in that way. She must act. 
She must devote herself. And she longed for a 
child. . . . And yet a child, or perhaps several 

children, while not bringing unhappiness, would not 
bring happiness either; for she knew that, even if 
she had children, she would not find sufficient satis¬ 
faction for her activity in educating them and bring¬ 
ing them up: she would do it as a loving duty, but 
it would not fill her life. She felt that almost mascu¬ 
line call within her, to strive as far as she could. 
If her limit was reached, well, then she would go no 
farther. But to strive to that limit, to perform her 
task as far as her nature demanded! . . . And 

she spoke to Lot in this sense. He did not know 
how to answer her, did not understand her and felt 
that something was escaping him. It never came to 
bitter words, but on both sides there were little 
thrills and counterthrills, after the first harmonious 
soft billowing over them both. . . . 

This sudden journey home, though causing an 
abrupt distraction, had, because of its relative 
futility, intensified Elly’s feeling that she was out of 


THINGS THAT PASS 341 

tune with things. She had loved the old man, as a 
father more than a grandfather, but she was too 
late to see him on his deathbed and the business- 
matters could have been arranged by power of at¬ 
torney. 

“ Yes, but we’re here now,” said Lot, “ and we 
must have a talk like sensible people. . . . Shall 
we go back to Italy, Elly?” 

“No, Lot, I’m glad I saw the place, with you; 
why go back at once and try to repeat . . . ?” 

“ Settle down here at the Hague? Go and live 
in the country, when the winter is over ? ” 

She looked at him because she heard the note of 
entreaty in his voice: he was entreating her because 
he felt something escape him . . . and she sud¬ 

denly felt pity for him. She flung herself on his 
breast, threw her arms round him: 

“My dear, darling boy!” she said. “I am so 
absolutely devoted to you.” 

“ And I to you, Elly dearest. . . .1 love you 

more than I thought I could love anybody. Oh, 
Elly, let us keep this feeling! Don’t let us be 
irritable. . . . You see, there has never been an 

unkind word between us, but still I feel something 
in you, a dissatisfaction. . . . Is it because . . 

“ Because what. Lot? ” 

“ Because I can’t do ... as much as you would 
like me to? . . .We were working together so 

pleasantly; and the work we did is not wasted . . . 

that sort of work is never wasted. . . . But, you 


342 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

know, darling, to do it as you would have me do It 
. . . is beyond me: I am not so thorough as that. 
I am a writer for the magazines, a dilettante, not an 
historian. Mine Is an ephemeral talent and all that 
I create is ephemeral: it always was. . . . Take 

it like that. . . 

“ Yes, Lot, I do take it like that. I am no longer 
distressed . . . about our poor Medicis.” 

“ You’ll see, I shall make a series of articles out 
of our researches: really, something quite good. 
A series: they’ll follow on one another. . . 

“ Yes, do it that way.” 

“ But then you must interest yourself in it.” 

“ That I certainly shall.” 

“ And now let us talk about what we shall do, 
where we shall live.” 

“ We’d better not settle down. . . . Stay here, 
until the house is sold, and then ...” 

“ Very well, then we can see.” 

“ Yes.” 

“We haven’t seen Grandmamma yet. Shall we 
go this afternoon?” 

“ I don’t believe that she has been up since, but 
we can go and ask.” 

She gave him an affectionate kiss. It was as an 
atonement after what had clashed and thrilled 
through them, without bitter words. She tried to 
recollect herself, to force herself. In the empty 
hunger of her soul. She loved Lot with all her 
heart; she would devote herself to him . . . and 


THINGS THAT PASS 343 

perhaps later to his children. . . . That must be 
enough to fill a woman’s life. . . . She would 

have her hobbies: she would take up her modelling 
again; after all, the Beggar Boy was very good. 
. . . That would certainly give completeness to 

her life, so long as she was happy with her husband; 
and that she was sure she was. She began to talk in 
a livelier strain than at first: something seemed to 
recover itself in her dejection. She would lead an 
ordinary life, as a happy wife, a happy mother, and 
cease longing for great, faraway things. . . . She 
would give up striving for horizons difficult of ap¬ 
proach, horizons that proved to be limits, so that 
she had to go back after all. 

She was gay at luncheon and Aunt AdHe bright¬ 
ened: the poor thing had been depressed lately 
and walked with a stoop, as though bending under a 
heavy load; she was sad also because she thought 
that Lot and Elly were not quite happy. Aunt 
Adele now freshened up, glad because Elly was 
more cheerful and looked brighter and was once 
more talking with her restless volubility. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


That afternoon, Lot and Elly went to Grand¬ 
mamma’s. 

Since the evening when Mamma Ottilie had told 
her of Dr. Roelofsz’ death, the old woman had not 
left her bed. Dr. Thielens called every day, declar¬ 
ing that she was really remarkably well: she was not 
suffering from any complaint whatever; she was 
perhaps suffering from old age; her brain was per¬ 
fectly clear; and he was amazed at that splendid 
constitution, the constitution of a strong woman 
who had possessed a great deal of blood and a 
magnificent vitality. 

When Anna opened the door in the Nassaulaan, 
just as Lot and Elly rang, they found her talking 
in the passage to Steyn. 

“ I’ve come to see how Mamma is,” he was say¬ 
ing. 

“ Do come in, please! ” said Anna. “ There’s a 
nice fire in the morning-room.” 

The old servant shooed the cat to the kitchen. 
She did not care for chatting in the passage, but 
thought it pleasant in the morning-room, when the 
relations were waiting there or came to ask for news; 
and she at once brought out her brandy-cherries: 

“ That’s nice and comforting in this cold weather, 
344 


THINGS THAT PASS 


345 

Mr. Lot and Mrs. Elly. . . .Yes, the old lady 
has been in bed ever since. . . . Ah, who can tell 
if it’s not the beginning of the end! . . . Still, 

Dr. Thielens is pretty satisfied. . . . And, you 

know, Mrs. Therese is here too 1 ” she added in a 
whisper. 

‘‘Oh?” said Lot. “When did she come?” 

“ Yesterday. . . . And the mistress saw her at 
once . . . and she’s very nice, I must say . . . 
but, you see . . . she’s on her knees all day by the 
mistress’ bed, saying her prayers . . . and whether 
that’ll do the mistress any good, who was never 
very religious . . . And then those Catholic 

prayers, they last so long, so long ... I wonder 
Mrs. Therese doesn’t get stiff knees from it: I 
couldn’t stand it, that I’m sure of. . . . Yes, yes, 
Mrs. Therese is here: she sleeps at an hotel, but 
she’s here all day praying . . . and I believe she 
would have liked to stay last night . . . but the 

companion said that, if the mistress got worse, she’d 
ask the people next door to telephone at once: they 
have a telephone; the mistress would never have one. 

. . . So Mrs. Therese went away, but she was 

here by seven o’clock this morning, before I myself 
was up! . . . Mr. Daan called yesterday, so did 

Mrs. Ina; they saw Mrs. Therese; I don’t think 
she’s calling on any of the family: she says she 
hasn’t the time—likely enough, with all that pray¬ 
ing—and she thought she could see the family 
down here, where I always keep up a good fire. 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


346 

. . . Yes, I asked Dr. Thielens: ‘ Doctor,’ I said, 
‘ is it a good thing that Mrs. Therese keeps praying 
all day long by the mistress’ bed?’ But the doctor, 
who had seen the mistress, said, ‘ Well, it doesn’t 
seem to excite her: on the contrary, she is very quiet 
and pleased to see Mrs. Therese again . . . for 
the last time perhaps! ’ . . . Ah, Mrs. Elly and 
Mr. Lot, it’s a sad home-coming for you! . . . 

And who do you think I saw as well? Your brother, 
Mr. Lot ...” 

“Hugh . . . ?” 

“ Well, I just call him Mr. Hugo: I can’t manage 
that English name. He came with Mrs. Ottilie; and 
it’s a pleasure to look at them. . . . Not that I 

think any the less of you, Mr. Lot, far from it; but 
Mr. Hugo is a handsome fellow, so broad-shoul¬ 
dered and such a jolly face, with his clean-shaven 
upper-lip, and such nice eyes! . . . Yes, I can 

understand that Mrs. Ottilie dotes on him: she 
looked so pretty too, beside her son. . . . Yes, 

it’s wonderful how young she looks, though she is 
sixty: you’d never think it, to look at her. . . . 

You mustn’t mind my speaking so freely of your 
wife, Mr. Frans . . . nor about Mr. Hugo either, 
you mustn’t be angry. I know you’re not very fond 
of him; and he’s a sly one, that I do believe; but he 
makes you like him and no mistake about it. . . . 
Well, you always got on with Mr. Lot, didn’t you, 
Mr. Frans? . . . And now Fd better tell Mrs. 
Therese that you’re here. . . 


THINGS THAT PASS 347 

Old Anna tripped away and up the stairs and 
Steyn asked: 

“ Haven’t you decided yet what you’re going to 
do?” 

“ No,” said Lot. 

“We shall stay in the Mauritskade till the house 
is sold,” said Elly. 

“ I’m glad I saw you to-day,” said Steyn. “ I’d 
have come to you otherwise: I wanted to speak to 
you. Lot. . . . Perhaps I can do so before any 

one comes. . . .” 

“What is it, Steyn?” 

“ I wanted to tell you of a step I’ve determined 
to take. You won’t like it, but it’s inevitable. I’ve 
spoken to Mamma, as much as it’s possible to speak 
to her. ... I sha’n’t go on living with her'. 
Lot.” 

“ Are you going to get divorced?” cried Lot. 

“ That I don’t mind: if Mamma wants to, I’m 
agreeable. . . . Lot, you were talking the other 

day of thfe needless sacrifice which I was making in 
living with your mother. . . .” 

“I meant ...” 

“ Yes, I know, you meant that I could just go 
away, without a divorce. ... I shall certainly do 
that. I can’t go on sacrificing myself, because . . . 
well, there’s no need for it now. Since you left to 
get married, the house is simply a hell. You brought 
a certain peace and quiet at times; you managed to 
ensure a little harmony at meals. But that’s all 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


348 

gone now. . . . For you to come and live with 

us ... I shouldn’t even wish it. It would mean 
a wretched life for Elly. Besides . . . Mamma 
has money enough now to go where she likes . . . 
and, now that she has money, Hugh remains with 
her. ... I asked her to talk as little as she 
could about the legacy and I don’t believe that she 
goes chattering about it either; but she has told 
Hugh everything. . . . ” 

“ I know she has,” said Lot. “ I’ve seen Hugh; 
and he said, ‘ Mamma’s had a good bit left her.’ ” 

“ Exactly . . . and he remains with her and 

she with him. Formerly I used to think, if I go 
leaving her, then I’m leaving her alone with you; 
and money was scarce on both sides: I could never 
bring myself to do it then; but now. Lot, I shall 
go my own way.” 

“ But, Steyn, you can’t abandon Mamma to 
Hugh’s mercies!” 

“ Can’t I? ” cried Steyn, flaring up. “ And what 
would you have me do? Look on? Look on while 
she squanders her money on that boy? What can 
I do to stop it? Nothing! I refuse to give the 
least impression that I want to be economical with 
her money. Let her throw it away on that boy! 
She’s got a hundred thousand: it’ll be finished in a 
year. What she’ll do then, I don’t know. But I 
consider that I have suffered enough for what was 
once my fault. Now, now that she has money and 
Hugh, my sacrifice becomes needless. . . . I’m 


THINGS THAT PASS 


349 

going away: that’s certain. If Mamma wants a 
divorce, I don’t care; but I’m going. I shall leave 
the Hague. I shall go abroad. Perhaps I sha’n’t 
see you for a long time. I can’t say. . . . Lot, 

my dear fellow. I’ve stood it all for twenty years; 
and my only comfort in my home was yourself. I 
have learnt to be fond of you. We are two quite 
different natures, but I thank you for what you have 
been to me: a friend, a dear friend. If your gentle 
nature had not smoothed over all that could be 
smoothed over at home, I should never have stood 
it for all these twenty years. Now I’m going away, 
but with pleasant memories. You were eighteen 
years old when I married your mother. You and I 
have never had a single harsh word; and the merit 
of it is due to you entirely. I’m a rough chap and 
I have become very bitter. All the kindness in my 
life has come from your side. When you got mar¬ 
ried ... I really missed you more perhaps than 
Mamma did: don’t be angry with me, Elly, for 
saying so. . . . There, perhaps we shall see each 
other again . . . somewhere or other. . . . 
Don’t cry. Lot, there’s a good fellow! ” 

He took Lot in his arms and kissed him as a 
father kisses his son. He held him in his embrace 
for a moment and then shook him firmly by the 
hand: 

“ Come, Lot, my dear fellow . . . be a 

man! ...” 

“ Poor Mamma 1 ” said Lot. 


350 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

His eyes were full of tears; he was greatly 
moved. 

“ When are you going? ” he asked Steyn. 

“ To-morrow.” 

“ At what time? ” 

“ Nine in the morning . . . for Paris.” 

“ ril come and see you off. . . 

“ So will I, Steyn,” said Elly. 

She kissed him. 

He turned to go; but there was a ring and Anna 
came down the stairs; 

“ I didn’t dare disturb Mrs. Therese,” she said. 
“ She’s so wrapped up in her prayers that . . . 

Why, look, Mr. Lot: there’s Mamma . . . and 

your English brother! . . .” 

“ Damn it! ” said Steyn, between his teeth. “ I 
can*t see her again. . . .” 

“ Steyn! ” said Elly, in a voice of entreaty. 

She was sorry for Lot, who sat huddled in a 
chair and unable to restrain himself: he was crying, 
though he knew that it wasn’t manly. 

Anna had opened the door and Ottilie and Hugh 
came in. They met Steyn in the passage. He and 
she looked each other in the eyes. Hugh’s hand 
went to his cap, as in salutation to a stranger. They 
passed one another without a word; and Steyn 
walked out of the door. That was his leave-taking 
of his wife: he never saw her again; and with him 
there passed the last remnant of all her life of love. 

“ I came to see how Mamma is,” she said to Elly, 


THINGS THAT PASS 351 

to Anna. “ And Hugh would so much like to see 
his grandmother. But Mamma is still in bed, isn’t 
she, Anna? . . 

She entered the morning-room: 

“ Ah, Lot! . . . Why, what’s the matter, my 
boy? ” 

“ Nothing, Mummy, nothing. . . .” 

“ Why are you looking so sad? Have you been 
crying? ” 

“ No, Mummy, no. . . . Nerves a bit un¬ 
strung, that’s all. . . . Hullo, Hugh! That’s a 

thing you don’t suffer from, slack nerves, eh, old 
chap? No, I don’t expect you ever cry like an old 
woman, as I do. . . .” 

Lot mastered himself, but his eyes were full of 
sorrow; they looked at his mother and his brother. 
. . . His mother did not care about dress; and 

he was struck by the fact- that she had had a short 
tailor-made skirt built for her in London and a 
little simple, black-cloth coat that was moulded to 
her still young and slender figure, while her hat 
displayed a more youthful curve than he was ac¬ 
customed to see on her pretty, grey-blond curly hair. 
She was sixty years of age 1 But she was all smiles; 
her smooth, round face, scored by scarce a wrinkle, 
was bright and cheerful; and—oh, he knew his 
mother so well!—he could see that she was happy. 
That was how she looked when she was happy, 
with that blue innocence in her eyes. . . . She was 
an old woman, she was sixty; but, when she now 


352 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

entered beside her English son, she was of no age, 
because of a happiness that owed nothing to real 
maternal feeling, a happiness due only to a little 
affection which her English son bestowed upon her 
in words of flattery and caresses. He said coaxing 
things to her, roughly; he fondled her, roughly; 
and she was happy, she brightened under a new 
happiness. Lot she did not miss: he no longer ex¬ 
isted for her ... at the moment. She was simply 
radiant because she had Hugh by her side. And 
Lot, as he saw the two of them, felt a pang pierce his 
soul. . . . Poor Mamma! He had always been 

fond of his mother and he thought her so nice and 
such fun; and, thanks to his natural gentleness and 
tact, they had always got on well together. He 
knew that she was fond of him too, even though he 
was out of her mind for the moment. She had al¬ 
ways loved Hugh best, of her five children. She had 
always loved Trevelley best, of her three husbands. 
. . . Poor, poor Mamma, thought Lot. She had 
her bit of money now: what was a hundred thousand 
guilders, if it was not properly looked after? What 
was a hundred thousand ... to Hugh? And, 
when that hundred thousand was finished—in . . . 
in a couple of years, perhaps—what would poor 
Mamma do then? For then his handsome English 
brother, with the bold eyes and the shaven upper-lip, 
would not stay with poor Mamma. . . . And 

what would her old age be like then? Poor, poor 
Mammal . . . 


THINGS THAT PASS 


353 

You’re extraordinarily like Mamma, Lot,” said 
Hugh. 

Yes, he was like his mother: he too was short, had 
very nearly her eyes, had very nearly her pretty hair, 
had the moulding of her young face. . . . He 

had been vain sometimes of his appearance in his 
youth, when he knew that he was a good-looking, 
fair-haired little chap. But he was vain no longer; 
and, beside Hugh, he felt an old woman, a slack- 
nerved old woman. . . . To be so tall, so broad- 

shouldered, so bold-eyed, with such a smiling-selfish 
mouth, such a cold heart, such calm, steel muscles 
and especially nerves; to care for nothing but your 
own comfort and victorious progress; to be able to 
live quietly on your mother’s money and, when 
that was finished, calmly and quietly to throw your 
mother overboard and go your own way: that was 
the real sign of a strong attitude towards life! That 
meant keeping the world and your emotions under 
your thumb I That meant having no fear of what 
was coming or of approaching old age ! That meant 
knowing nothing of nervous dread and never blub¬ 
bering like an old woman, a slack-nerved old 
woman! 

“Yes, Hugh, I’m like Mamma.” 

“ And Elly’s . . . like yo//,” said Hugh. 

“ And, in a very ugly edition, like Mamma: 
at least, so people say. Mummy,” said Elly, 
softly. 

And she kissed her mother-in-law: she too was 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


354 

sad, thinking of the old man . . and of Steyn 

. . •. and of poor Lot. . . . 

The bell suddenly rang upstairs, twice: that was 
for the companion. 

“Is Aunt Therese upstairs?” asked Elly. 

“ I haven’t seen her yet,” said Ottilie. “ But 
what can it be? . . .” 

“ Oh dear, oh dear! ” cried Anna, coming from 
the kitchen and driving the cat away. “ It must 
be the mistress again, behaving funnily: you know, 
she sees things. ...” 

But the companion came tearing down the stairs, 
with a pale face: 

“I believe she’s dying!” she exclaimed, “I’m 
going next door ... to telephone for the doc¬ 
tor. ...” 

“Stay!” said Lot. “ I’ll go.” 

He took his hat and went out. Dismay hovered 
over the house. Mamma, Ottilie, Elly, the com¬ 
panion and Anna went upstairs. 

“ You wait here, Hugh,” said Ottilie. 

He nodded. 

He remained alone in the morning-room, sat 
down, amused himself by flinging his cap to the 
ceiling and catching it each time it fell. . . . He 

thought that his mother fould not inherit much 
from Grandmother. . . . There would be beastly 
little; and even then it would be divided among 
many. 

He lit a cigarette and, when Lot came back, 


THINGS THAT PASS 


355 

opened the door to him, which Anna afterwards 
thought very nice of Hugh. 

Lot also went upstairs. In the bedroom—the 
folding-doors were open, for the sake of the air, 
making the bedroom of a piece with the drawing¬ 
room where the old woman usually sat—dismay 
hovered, but it was subdued. Only Mamma was 
unable to restrain her sobs. It was so unexpected, 
she considered. No, she would never have thought 
it. . . . 

Beside the bed stood Aunt Therese. And It 
seemed to Lot, when he entered, as though he were 
seeing Grandmother herself, but younger. . . . 

Aunt Therese’s dark creole eyes gave Lot a 
melancholy greeting. Her hand made a gesture 
towards the bed, on which the old woman lay, quite 
conscious. 

Death was coming gradually, without a struggle, 
like a light guttering out. Only the breath came a 
little faster, panted with a certain difficulty. . . . 

She knew that her children were around her, but 
did not know which of them. They were children: 
so much she knew. And this one, she knew, was 
Therese, who had come; and she was grateful for 
that. Her hand moved over the coverlet; she 
moaned and said: 

“Therese . . . Therese . . 

“Yes, Mamma . . .” 

“Therese . . . Therese . . . pray. . . 

She herself folded her hands. 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


356 

Therese van der Staff knelt down beside the 
bed. She prayed. She prayed at great length. The 
old woman, with folded hands, lay dying, very 
slowly, but calmly. . . . Mamma Ottilie was 

sobbing in Lot’s arms. . . . 

There was a ring at the door downstairs. 

“That dear Mr. Hugo! ” whispered old Anna. 
“ He’s opening the door! ” 

It was Dr. Thielens, but there was nothing for 
him to do. The old woman had hardly been ill: it 
was a light burning out. Since they had told her of 
Roelofsz’ death, since she herself had seen Takma 
dead, she had not got up and had only still enjoyed, 
in gratitude, the one great happiness of seeing her 
daughter Therese appear so unexpectedly beside 
her bed. No one had spoken to her of Takma’s 
death, but speaking was not necessary: she had seen 
and she knew. . . . She remembered quite well 

that Therese had become a Catholic and that she 
herself had sometimes longed for the peace of abso¬ 
lution and the consolation of prayer, which would 
be wafted by the saints to the throne of God and 
Mary. And she had asked Therese to pray, to pray 
for her old mother. . . . She, the mother, did not 
know that Therese knew: she had forgotten, entirely 
forgotten, the fever, many years ago, when she had 
been delirious in her daughter’s arms. . . . And, 

now that she was dying, she reflected, gratefully, 
that God had been very good to her, notwithstand¬ 
ing her sinful soul, for no one, no one knew. No 


THINGS THAT PASS 


357 

one, no one had ever known. Her children had 
never known. . . . She had suffered punishment, 

within herself, the punishment of remorse, borne for 
long old years. She had suffered punishment in the 
terror which “ his ” spectre had given her, rising 
all bloody in the corner of the room, a few times 
during those years, in the corner by the china- 
cabinet. Yes, she had suffered punishment! . . . 
But still God had been merciful: no one, no one 
had known; no one, no one knew or would ever 
know. . . . Now she was dying, with her hands 

folded together; and Therese, who knew how to 
pray, prayed. . . . 

Softly she sighed her breath away, the old 
woman; long, long she lay sighing away her breath. 

. The silence of the room was broken by 
Ottilie Steyn’s sobs and by the sighing of the old 
woman’s breath. . . . Out of doors, the thaw 

stole down the window-panes like a stream of tears. 

‘‘ Oh 1 ” Anna wept. “ How long the old lady 
takes dying! . . . Hark . . . there’s a ring! 

. . . That kind Mr. Hugo, the dear boy, he’s ? 

great help to me, Mrs. Ottilie: listen, he’s opening 
the door again! . . . ” 

Hugh did in fact open the door; and in quick suc¬ 
cession there entered Harold, Daan and Floor, 
Stefanie and Anton, Ina, D’Herbourg and the Van 
Welys. Lot had telephoned to them from the 
neighbours’ to come, because Grandmamma was 
dying. Aunt Adde also arrived. She came upstairs, 


358 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

just for a minute, to take a last glance from behind 
the bed-curtain at the old woman, and then went 
down again. The last sighing breaths pursued her 
to the morning-room below. All that she had seen 
in that brief moment, was the peacefulness of 
the dying mother and, beside her bed, Therese, 
whom she had not seen for years, praying without 
looking up. Downstairs, Harold Dercksz had sunk 
into a chair: he was suffering unendurable pains, 
his face was twisted with torture and before his eyes 
he saw his own deathbed: it would not be long now, 
he had suffered too much lately; and it was only his 
strength of will that kept him going. Daan Dercksz 
stood in front of him and whispered in Harold’s ear: 

“ Harold . . . Harold . . . it is a good 

thing that Mamma is dying . . . and she is 

dying peacefully . . . so it seems. . . . ” 

Yes, she was dying, dying peacefully. . 

Beside her bed Therese knelt and prayed, Therese 
who did not know, so Harold thought: nobody 
. . . nobody knew but himself and Daan. . . . 
The Thing . . . the Thing was passing. . . . 

Listen^ upstairs his mother was sighing away her 
last few breaths; and at each breath the Thing 
passed, passed farther, trailing its misty veil: leaves 
rustled, the thaw poured on as in a stream of tears, 
spectres loomed behind the trees, but the Thing 
. . . the Thing was passing! . . . 

Oh, for years, for sixty long years he had seen 
the Thing dragging past, so slowly, so lingeringly. 


THINGS THAT PASS 359 

as if it would never pass, as if it would tarry for 
ever, too long for a human life yearning for the 
end! Sixty years long he had seen it thus, the 
Thing; sixty years long it had stared him in the eyes. 
. . Listen, Mamma was moaning more loudly, 

more violently for a while; they could hear Ottilie 
sobbing more passionately. . . . 

The companion came downstairs. There stood or 
sat the children, elderly people all. 

“ It is over,” she said, softly. 

They wept, the old people; they embraced one 
another; Aunt Floor screamed: 

“ Ah I . . . Kassian! . . . That poor-r-r, 
dhear-r-r Mamma 1 ” 

Over the whole house hovered the emotion of 
death which had come and was going. . . . 

Harold Dercksz gazed before him. . . . His 

eyes of pain stared from his face, but he did not 
move in his chair. 

The Thing: he saw the terrible Thing! It was 
turning at the last bend of its long, long, endless 

path. . . . 

And it plunged headlong, into an abyss. 

It was gone. 

Only a mist, like the haze of its nebulous veil, 
drifted to and fro before Harold’s eyes. 

“O my God!” cried Ina. Papa’s fainting!” 

She caught him in her arms. . . . 

The dark evening fell. 

One by one, the “ children ” went upstairs and 


36 o things that PASS 

looked at their old mother. She lay in the peaceful¬ 
ness of death; the lined porcelain face made a vague 
blur In the shadow against the white of her pillow, 
but It was now smooth, untroubled, at rest. And her 
hands were folded together: she had died like that. 
Therese knelt beside the bed. . . 


CHAPTER XXIX 


The room was warmed by a moderate fire; the cur¬ 
tains were half-closed; and Lot had slept calmly, for 
the first time since the fever had passed its crisis. 
It was his own old room, in Mamma’s house; and, 
when he woke, his fingers, after a deliciously lazy 
interval, felt for the letter which Elly had written 
him from St. Petersburg. He drew the letter from 
the envelope and read and read it again, glad that 
she had written so fully and that she seemed charged 
with courage and enthusiasm. Then his hand 
dropped, feeling the cold, and hid itself under the 
blankets. He lay in quiet content, after his first 
calm sleep, and looked round the room, the room 
which Steyn had given up to him years ago, so that 
he might work at his ease, with his books and knick- 
knacks around him. It was the only comfortable 
room in the house. . . . Well, he would not have 
it long. Steyn was gone; and Mamma intended to 
pay the final quarter’s rent, sell the furniture and 
go back to England with Hugh. . . . 

Lot felt a little light-headed, but easy and with 
no fever, really a great deal better than he could 
remember having been for a long time past. He 
enjoyed the warmth of the bed, while outside—he 
had just noticed it—the rain came pattering down; 

361 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


362 

but he, lying quietly in bed, did not mind the rain. 
On the table beside him was some water, a bottle 
of quinine capsules, a plate of hot-house grapes and 
his bell. He picked a couple of grapes, sucked them 
and rang. 

Ottilie entered, anxiously: 

“Are you awake. Lot?” 

“ Yes, Mummy.” 

“ Have you had a sleep?” 

“ Yes, I’m feeling rather well.” 

“ Oh, Lot, you were so bad yesterday and the 
day before! . . . You were delirious and kept 

calling out . . . for your father . . . and for 
Elly. ... I didn’t know what to do, my boy, 
and at last . . .” 

“Well?” 

“Nothing. Your cough’s bad still. Lot. . . 

“ Yes, I caught cold; we know that; it’ll get bet¬ 
ter .. . as soon as I’m out of this confounded 
country, as soon as I’m in Italy.” 

“ I shouldn’t go thinking of Italy just yet.” 

“ As soon as I’m better. I’ll first go and take the 
sun at Nice, with Ottilie and Aldo, and then on to 
Rome.” 

“ What do you want to do there, all by your¬ 
self?” 

“ I have old friends there, fellows I know. And 
I shall do some writing. . . . Is Hugh at home ? ” 

“ Yes, he’s in his little room.” 

“Has he got Steyn’s room?” 


THINGS THAT PASS 


363 

“ Well, of course! What other room would you 
have me give him? Now that Steyn has gone . . 
abroad, surely I can have my own son with me! ” 

“ I should like to talk to Hugh. Would yoil ask 
him to come to me? ” 

“Won’t it tire you. Lot?” 

“ No, Mummy. I’ve had a good sleep.” 

“ Do you want to talk to Hugh alone?” 

“ Yes, please.” 

“ What about? ” 

“ About you.” 

“And mayn’t I be there?” 

“No. You mustn’t listen outside the door either. 
Do you promise ? ” 

“ What do you want to talk to Hugh about? ” 

“ I’ve told you: about you. There, ask him to 
come to me. And then leave us alone for a bit.” 

“ Are you sure there’s no fever? ” 

She felt his forehead. 

“ Take my temperature, if you like. ...” 

“ It’s just over ninety-eight,” she said, in a 
minute or two. 

“ I told you so. I’m feeling very well.” 

“ Do you like your grapes? ” 

“Yes. ...” 

She went at last, still hesitating. . . . She had 
meant to tell him that, two days ago, he had been 
so ill and had called out so eagerly for his father and 
Elly that she had sent Hugh to telegraph to Pauws; 
that Pauws had come from Brussels; that Pauws had 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


364 

seen him the night before last. Lot had not recog¬ 
nized his father. . . . But she found all this rather 
difficult to tell and she went away. . . . 

In a few moments Hugh came in, sturdy as usual, 
with his calves showing under the breeches of his 
check bicycling-suit, and asked: 

“ Feeling better. Lot? ” 

‘‘ Yes, a great deal better. I wanted to have a 
talk with you, Hugh. Will it bore you? ” 

“ Not at all. Lot.” 

“ WeVe always got on all right, haven’t we, you 
and I?” 

“ Of course we have.” 

“ It may have been because I was never much in 
your way; but in any case . . .” 

“ You were always a good chap.” 

“ Thank you.” 

“ Doesn’t it tire you, talking? ” 

“No, old fellow; in fact, I want to talk to you. 
> . . Hugh, there’s something I want to ask 
you.”' 

“ What’s that. Lot? ” 

“ Mamma is going to London with you.” 

“ Yes, she thought she’d like to come with me 
this time. You see, John and I never see her; and 
Mary will soon be home from India.” 

“ Yes, I can understand . . . that she some¬ 

times wants to see her other children too. Hugh, 
all I wanted to ask you is: be kind to her.” 

“But aren’t I?” 


THINGS THAT PASS 365 

“ Well, then, remain so. She’s a big child, Hugh. 
She wants a lot of affection, wants it coming her 
way. You see. I’ve been with her most: thirty-eight 
years, with a few intervals. You’ve lived away 
from her for over ten years; and even before that 
you were more with your father than with her. 
So you don’t know Mamma very well.” 

“ Oh, I know her well enough! ” 

“ Perhaps,” said Lot, wearily. “ Perhaps you 
know her well enough. . . . But try to be nice to 
her, Hugh.” 

“ Of course I will. Lot.” 

“ That’s a good chap.” 

His voice fell, despondently; but his hand grasped 
his half-brother’s hand. Oh, what was the use of 
insisting? What did that strong, cool lad, with his 
bold eyes and his laughing, clean-shaven mouth, feel, 
except that Mamma had money—a hundred thou¬ 
sand guilders—and was going with him to his coun¬ 
try? In Hugh’s firm hand Lot felt his own fingers 
as though they were nothing. So thin, so thin: had 
he wasted away so much in a week? 

“ Hugh, I wish you’d just give me that hand¬ 
glass.” 

Hugh gave him the mirror. 

“ Draw the blind a little higher.” 

Hugh did so; and Lot looked at himself. Yes, he 
had grown thin, but he also looked very bad because 
he was unshaved. 

“ Hugh, if you’re going out again, you might 


366 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

look in at Figaro’s and tell him to come and shave 
me. 

“ Right you are.” 

Lot put down the looking-glass. 

“Have you heard from Elly, Lot?” 

“ Yes, Hugh.” 

“ That’s a fine thing she’s doing.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ One’d think she was an Englishwoman! ” said 
Hugh, almost in admiration. 

“Yes,” said Lot, gently, “just so, an English¬ 
woman. . . .” 

But an unaccustomed voice sounded from below; 
and Lot, listening, was greatly surprised, because 
he seemed to recognize the voice of his father, 
of Pauws, speaking to the servant. 

He sat up in bed: 

“Hugh!” he cried. “Hugh! Can it be . . . 
25 that my father? ” 

“ I believe so,” drawled Hugh, laconically. 

“ Is that Papa? How does he come to be here, 
in this house? 

“ Ah,” said Hugh, “ you’re no end of a swell to¬ 
day ! But two days ago you were delirious, calling 
out for your governor. So Mother said, ‘ Wire.’ I 
wired. He stood by your bedside for a moment, 
but you didn’t know him. . . . ” 

“Havel been as ill as all that?” cried 
Lot. 

He felt things growing misty and unsteady, but 


THINGS THAT PASS 367 

yet he distinguished Pauws cautiously entering the 
room: 

“My boy! . . 

“Father! ...” 

Pauws stepped briskly to the bed, took Lot’s 
hand; then he remained quite still for at least an 
hour. Hugh had gone. For at least an hour Pauws 
sat without speaking. It seemed that Lot had fallen 
asleep. He woke after that long silence and said: 

“Mamma telegraphed to you . . .” 

“ Two days ago. I came at once. You didn’t 
know me. . . .” 

“ Did you . .. . speak to Mamma? ” 

“No.” 

“Have you seen her?” 

“ No. The servant told me the day before yes¬ 
terday, when I went away, that they would let me 
know at the hotel if there was any change in you. 
Yesterday, when I called, you were asleep. . . . 

But where’s Elly? ” 

“ Don’t you know? ...” 

“ How should I know? ” 

Lot had closed his eyes again and old Mr. Pauws 
sat silent, asking no more questions, with Lot’s 
hand in his. Once more there was a long, throbbing 
silence. Old Pauws looked round the room, casting 
his quick glance here and there, breathing again be¬ 
cause Lot was not going to die. ... He had 
never been inside the house before. He had not seen 
Ottilie for years and years. Nor had she shown 


368 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

herself this time. Nevertheless he had heard her 
voice, hushed immediately, behind a door; and the 
sound of that voice, that voice of the old days, had 
moved him violently. . . . She had grown old, 

no doubt; but that voice behind the door was the 
eame voice, the voice of Ottilie, his wife! Oh, what 
a sweet, pretty creature she was when he married 
her, a girl just turned twenty, and how happy they 
had been, in spite of an occasional angry word, in 
Java, with their two children: little Ottilie first and 
then Lot! . . . Only a few years; and then . . . 
and then she had met that bounder Trevelley, the 
father of the boy whom he had just seen, with his 
damned English mug, a mug that was like his 
father’s. And since then ... he had never 
seen her again! How long was that ago? He 
reckoned it out: it was thirty-four years! His 
little Ottilie was a girl of six then. Lot a little chap 
of four: two such loves of children, such dear, 
pretty children! ... At the divorce, the custody 
of the children was awarded to him, not her; but 
Lot was so fond of his mother and he had consented, 
after some years, that they should stay on with their 
mother: she remained their mother, in spite of what 
she had done. . . . Little Ottilie had spent a very 
long time with him sometimes; Lot, on the other 
hand, would be longer with his mother: it was a 
constant going to and fro for the poor mites, who 
had no fixed home in which to live with their parents. 
Still, he had always gone on seeing his children and 


THINGS THAT PASS 369 

keeping in touch with them; and he admired little 
Ottilie, because she grew into big Ottilie and be¬ 
came very handsome; but he had always doted on 
Lot, though he was such a frail little fair-haired chap 
—perhaps for that very reason—and because he 
was really so ridiculously like his mother. . . . 

There the poor fellow lay. Where was his wife? 
Where was Elly? 

He had seen her neither yesterday nor the day 
before. What had happened? . . . He had 

now been sitting for over an hour by Lot’s bed, 
with Lot’s hand in his: the boy had closed his eyes 
again; yet a pressure of that small, thin, delicate 
hand told his father that he was not asleep, but 
only resting. . . . Pauws let his son lie quite 

still, wiped the sweat from Lot’s forehead with a 
handkerchief. . . . Well, he was perspiring 

nicely, the skin felt relaxed. . . . Patience now, 

until Lot felt inclined to talk again; patience now, 
to find out about Elly! Thank God, the beggar 
wasn’t going to die, as Pauws had feared for a 
moment; but the flesh he’d lost! And he had never 
had much to spare. How thin his face had grown! 
How young he looked for his age, even though his 
fair hair was beginning to turn grey! . . . Pauws 

had always been very fond of him, because of his 
calm and gentle character, so very different from 
his mother’s. He had no doubt become so gentle 
and calm because he wasn’t strong: when those 
violent scenes took place at home. Lot, as a child. 


370 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

used to go and sit quietly in his corner until the scene 
had ended. . . . But what could have happened 

with Elly? 

Lot opened his eyes at last, but the old man 
dared not yet ask after Elly. If it was anything sad, 
something that he couldn’t imagine, then he mustn’t 
ask Lot: it might make the poor boy go quite off 
his head again. So he merely wiped his son’s fore¬ 
head with some eau-de-Cologne which he saw stand¬ 
ing there and asked: 

“ Are you better, old chap? . . 

“Yes, Father . . . a great deal better. . . ..i 
It seems so strange to me, to have you sitting here 

. . . but I’m very glad of it. . . . Was I so 

ill that Mamma had to telegraph? I didn’t know it 
myself. ... I woke this morning and felt very 
weak . .. . but quiet. ... It was a fever, 

you see, and I caught a bad cold into the bargain, 
in this beastly winter weather, here. . . . Bron¬ 

chitis, but not at all serious, you know ... A 
touch of influenza as well: nothing out of the way. 
. . . I shall soon get right with a little nursing. 

. . . When I’m well, I shall go to the south, to 

Ottilie: she’s still with her Aldo; yes, it can’t be 
helped, they’ll never get married. . . . And per¬ 
haps they’re right. . . . And there you are, sit¬ 

ting by my bed. . . . Well, now that you’re here, 
guv, you’re just going to stay at the Hague until 
I’m better. If you’ve brought no luggage, you can 
buy a couple of shirts and a toothbrush. , , 


THINGS THAT PASS 


371 

No, I don’t mean to let you go again. Mamma 
needn’t see you, if you don’t wish it. But, now that 
she’s been mad enough to wire to you and frighten 
you out of your wits, she must put up with the worry 
of it, if it is a worry. . . . Besides, she won’t stay 
very long herself. ...” 

“ Don’t talk too much, my boy. . . 

“ No, it doesn’t tire me . . . meandering on like 
this. Mamma won’t stay long. You don’t know 
anything: I’ll tell you how things stand. Steyn has 
gone . . . abroad; perhaps for good. Mamma 

has come into money from old Mr. Takma; yes, 
she came into a hundred thousand guilders. . . . 

And she is now going to England, with Hugh. 
. . . And she will stay there, with Hugh, I ex¬ 

pect, as long as the hundred thousand lasts. . . 

“ Is that it? Oh, your poor mother! ” 

“ You needn’t pity her. Father: not yet, at least. 
She is very, very happy at the moment. She dotes 
on her Hugh. I had to fall ill to make her remem¬ 
ber that she had a Lot as well. But she was very 
nice to me: she nursed me, I think. . . . Really, 
she is quite happy. . . . Perhaps in a year or two 
. . . when the hundred thousand is gone . . . 
she will come back to me. ...” 

“ But what about you, old chap, what about 
you?” exclaimed the old man, unable to contain 
himself any longer. 

“ I ? . . .1 shall go to Nice first, to take in the 
sun a bit . . . and then to Italy, to write. . . 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


372 

“But . . 

“ Oh yes, I remember: Pve told you nothing 
yet!” 

He closed his eyes, but pressed his father’s hand. 

There was a knock at the door; the servant put 
in her head and said: 

“ If you please, sir, if you please, Mr. Lot, the 
barber has come. The mistress asked if it wouldn’t 
be too tiring for you. . . . ” 

“ No,” said Lot, “ let him come up.” 

“ Aren’t you really too tired. Lot? ” asked Pauws. 

“ No. It causes me physical pain to look as I do 
now.” 

The barber entered with a hesitating but cheerful 
step: he had a round, jovial face. 

“ Come along, Figaro 1 ” said Lot. 

“Well, sir, are you pulling round? . . . It’s 

over a week since I saw you . . . but I heard 

that you were ill.” 

Pauws walked about the room impatiently, sat 
down petulantly by the window. 

“ Shave me very nicely, won’t you, Figaro? ” said 
Lot. “ For I look awful with this beard on me. 
. . . Yes, you’ll find everything on the wash-hand- 
stand.” 

“ I’ve brought your own razor, sir.” 

“ That’s right, Figaro. . . . I’m glad to see 

your face again. Is there no news? . . .Yes, 

it’s a delight to feel your velvety blade gliding 
down my cheek. . . . As a matter of fact, it does 


THINGS THAT PASS 373 

one’s skin a heap of good to go unshaved for a 
week or so. . . . But it’s heavenly to feel one’s 

face smooth again. . . . That gentleman, Figaro, 
sitting over there, is my father. . . . But he 

shaves himself, so don’t reckon on him as a cus¬ 
tomer. ... I say, Figaro, you might give me a 
clean suit of pyjamas: there, the second drawer from 
the top. . . .Yes, one of the silk ones, with the 
blue stripes. ... I believe in silk pyjamas, when 
you’re ill. . . .Yes, just valet me, now that you’re 
here, Figaro. . . . Help me on . . . that’s 

right . . . and now pitch the dirty ones into the 

clothes-basket. . . . Give me a clean handker¬ 
chief. . . . And now brush my hair: you’ll find 

some eau-de-quinine over there. . . . And a wet 
towel for my hands, please. . . . Ah, I feel a 

king, even after this first, short clean-up! . ,. 
Thank you, Figaro.” 

“Come again to-morrow, sir?” 

“ Yes, do ... or no, let’s say the day after 
. . . to spare my skin, you know. Day after to¬ 

morrow. Good-bye, Figaro. ...” 

The barber went away. Pauws said: 

“ How can you be such a baby. Lot? ” 

“ Father, come and sit here now. Look, I’m a 
different creature. I feel ever so much revived 
with my soft skin and my silk pyjamas. Tuck me in 
at the back, will you? . . . Have a grape! . . .” 
“Lot . . .” 

“Oh yes, you wanted to know! . 


. . I re- 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


374 

member, you don’t know anything yet. Fll tell you, 
Father. Elly is at St. Petersburg.” 

“At St. Petersburg?” 

“ Yes, Father.” 

“ What’s she doing there? ” 

“I’ll tell you. ...” 

“ Have you quarrelled, has she gone away, Has 
Elly gone away?” 

“ Do have patience. What an impatient old man 
you are! No, we haven’t quarrelled. . . . Elly 

is going to the war.” 

“ The war? ” 

“ To Mukden. . . . She’s joining the Red 

Cross at St. Petersburg.” 

“Elly?” 

“ Yes.” 

“My God!” 

“Why, Father? It’s her vocation. She feels 
that she must obey it; and it is fine of her to do so. 
. . . She and I discussed it at length. I did not 
think it my duty to oppose her. I went with her to 
the Russian minister. I helped her with all her 
preparations. She is very strong and very plucky; 
and she has become even pluckier than she used to 
be. . . . She used to nurse the sick poor once, 

you know. . . . Father, I saw her at Florence: a 
little boy of six was run over by a motor-car. She 
took him up in her arms, put him in a cab and drove 
with him to a doctor . . . whereas / almost 

fainted! . . . Whether she will stay with the 


THINGS THAT PASS 


375 

Red Cross I can’t tell; but I am convinced that, as 
long as she does, she will devote herself with all 
her might and main. . . .You see, she’s like 

that. Father; it’s the tendency, the line of her life. 
. . . Each of us has a different line. Getting 

married and trying to draw two lines into one by a 
legal foot-rule is all nonsense. Aldo and Ottilie are 
right. . . . But, though Elly and I are married 

according to the legal foot-rule . . . she is free. 
Only, I . . .” 

He paused and then went on: 

“ I suffered, when she went away . . . for who 
knows how long. . . . I am so intensely fond of her 
. . . and I miss her, now that she has been mine.” 

“ The damned baggage I ” cried Pauws. 

Lot took his father’s hand: 

“ Don’t say that. Father. ...” 

“ Those damned women I ” cried Pauws. 
“They’re all . . . they’re all ...” 

He could not find his words. 

“ No, Father, they are not ‘ all.’ . . . Each of 
them is different . . . and so are we. . . . 
Don’t talk like that, don’t talk of ‘ men ’ and 
‘ women.’ We are all poor, seeking, straying human 
beings. Let her seek: that is her life. In seeking, 
she does fine things, good things . . . finer and 

better things than I. . . . Here, read her letter: 
she has written to me from St. Petersburg.” 

“ No, Lot, I will not read her letter. Her place 
is with her husband, especially when he is ill. . . . ” 


376 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

“ She doesn’t know that Pm ill. Surely you 
wouldn’t telegraph to her to come over from St. 
Petersburg, as you came from Brussels, because Pve 
had a touch of fever. Father, don’t condemn 

her. . . .” 

“Yes, I do condemn her and I condemn you too, 
for your cowardice in letting her go, for not being a 
man and compelling her to stay with you.” 

Lot clasped his hands: 

“ Father,” he said, gently, “ don’t speak like 
that. Don’t speak like that. You pain me so. . . . 
And I have suffered so much pain as it is: not pain, 
but sorrow, sorrow! ” 

A great sob shook his body and he burst into 
tears. 

“ My boy, my poor, dear boy! ” 

“ Father, I am not plucky, but I will try to be. 
And calm. And quiet. . . . Don’t leave me just 

yet. Mamma is going to England with Hugh. 
Listen: she will never see Steyn again. He has gone 
away for good. . . . Now that she has money, 

now that she has Hugh, the rest means nothing to 
her, even I am nothing to her. . . . Don’t leave 

me. Come with me to Nice, come with me to Italy. 

. , . Don’t abandon me to my sorrow; but don’t 
let us talk about it either; and please don’t condemn 
Elly again ... if you and I are to remain friends. 
She does as she is bound to do and she can’t do 
otherwise.” 

His voice sounded manlier; and old Pauws was 


THINGS THAT PASS 


377 

surprised at the energy with which he uttered the 
last words. . . . Yes, he was surprised, . . 

That was certainly another breed than his; and 
those were ideas, views, conditions which were 
totally beyond his reach! Not to get married in 
church; after a few months’ marriage, to allow 
your wife to join the Red Cross; and to feel sorrow 
at her leaving you, but to consider that it couldn’t 
be different and that she was doing what she had to: 
those, you know, were conditions, views, ideas so 
far removed from his own that, in his swelling in¬ 
dignation at what Elly had done, they all whirled 
before his eyes; and he felt that he belonged to an¬ 
other breed, to another period. He gave an almost 
imperceptible shrug of the shoulders, but did not 
wish to express any more of his utterly different and 
doubtless old-fashioned feelings; and, when Lot re¬ 
peated his request that he should stay with him, he 
merely answered: 

“ Yes, my boy, Fll stay with you! . . 

And the emphasis which he laid upon the words 
was the only comment that he allowed himself. Lot 
gave a deep sigh and left his hand in his father’s. 
A few seconds later, the old man noticed that Lot 
had fallen asleep. He released his hand from his 
son’s slack fingers and stole from the room on tip¬ 
toe, unperceived by Lot. 

Pauws remained standing on the landing. . . 
Yes, it was all whirling before his eyes. That was 
not the way in which he had loved, with so much 


378 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

self-control and philosophy and understanding of 
another’s soul: he had loved differently, more 
ardently, more passionately, with simple, fierce 
virility. . . . Now, after many years, he was in 

his wife’s house and he felt that, though she was 
old, he still loved her . . . that he had always 

loved her and that, gradually, his love for her, no 
longer fierce, passionate or ardent—for the old 
years were growing cold—had become abiding and 
fond. i. . . 

He remained standing, irresolutely. . . . What 
should he do? . . . Something hesitated within 

him: whether to stay here, in the house, or rush out 
into the rain! He could not have stayed another 
minute in Lot’s sick-room: the air oppressed him; 
and, active old man that he was, he felt a need, 
after what he had heard, to move about, to shake 
himself, to shake himself free of the whirl of those 
views and ideas which were so strange to him. . . . 
And yet! . . . 

Slowly he went down the stairs; and his heart 
thumped like a young man’s. . . . Where would 
she be? There! . . . He heard her voice in the 
drawing-room, the voice which he had not heard 
for years, talking English with her son, with her 
son Hugh! They were laughing, they were laugh¬ 
ing together: Hugh’s voice sounded coaxing, roughly 
caressing; her voice sounded . . . oh, it sounded 

as it had always sounded: so intensely sweet . . . 
and bewitching! . . . Had she really grown 


THINGS THAT PASS 379 

older? ... A fierce, rebellious jealousy boiled 
up within him because of that son who was not his 
son, that son whom he had seen for two seconds in 
Lot’s room, that son who was like his father . . . 
Trevelley! He clenched his fists. He felt inclined 
to dash open the door with those fists and to rush 
into the room and say furious words, do furious 
things. . . 

But no ... no ... it was all past. Only 
think: years had gone by. . . She was sixty: 

he could not imagine her that. . . . She was 

happy, so Lot had said; she would be happy, as 
long as her money lasted. . . . She was sixty 
years of age, but she remained a child; and not till 
later, when she was a very old woman—who could 
tell: perhaps ill and broken and miserable?—after 
that fellow had run through her money . . . 

He pulled the latch of the front-door, went out 
into the street, into the rain. Very softly he closed 
the door after him. Oh, he could not, could not 
come back again and hear her voice once more be¬ 
hind that drawing-room door! . . . He would 

write to Lot from the hotel . . . that he would 
certainly not leave him, that he would go abroad 
with him, but that he could not come back to Ottilie’s 
house, now that Lot was mending, and that he would 
wait for him in Brussels . . . to go south to¬ 

gether. . 


CHAPTER XXX 


The sunny days had come, at the end of April, 
in Naples; and Lot, from his room, across the 
green-lacquered palms of the Villa Nazionale, saw 
the sea stretch blue, a calm, straight, azure expanse, 
hazing away, farther towards the horizon, in a 
pearly mist, from which, in dreamy unreality, 
Castellamare stood out with brighter, square white 
patches. . . . 

He looked out of his high window, feeling a little 
tired after his walk with Steyn, who had just gone, 
after sitting with him for a long time. He had been 
glad to see Steyn, feeling lonely at the departure 
of old Mr. Pauws, who had gone back to Brussels 
after spending two months with Lot. Yes, the old 
gentleman had been unable to stand it: the scorching 
April heat in Naples was too much for him, whereas 
it sent Lot into the seventh heaven. Lot was quite 
well again. That had been a pleasant time with 
Papa: they had gone for long excursions in the 
Campaigna and latterly in the environs of Naples; 
and this constant living in the open air, without 
fatiguing himself, had done Lot a world of good: 
he felt himself growing stronger daily. Then 
old Pauws left him: Lot himself had insisted upon 
Papa’s going, dreading that the sun-swept, southern 
380 


THINGS THAT PASS 381 

spring, in Naples of all places, would affect the old 
gentleman’s health, hale and hearty though he might 
be. And so old Pauws went back, regretting that he 
had to leave Lot by himself, but pleased with the 
time which they had spent together and with the 
harmony that existed between him and his son, who 
was so very different from him. 

This was all because of Lot’s character; he gave 
Lot full credit for it, for he himself was a brusque, 
somewhat rough, masterful man, but Lot, with his 
yielding gentleness and his not so very cynical laugh, 
smoothed away, with native ease, anything that 
might provoke a conflict or want of harmony be¬ 
tween an old father and a son who was still young. 

Yes, Lot was glad that Steyn had broken his 
journey and put in a day or two at Naples. Though 
Lot had acquaintances at Naples and he saw them 
regularly, he had found in Steyn something to re¬ 
mind him of home and his country and his family. 
It happened fortunately that Steyn arrived after 
Lot’s father had left, so that there was no possibility 
of a painful meeting between these two husbands of 
his mother. And yet they had nothing to reproach 
each other with: “ Mr.” Trevelley came in between 
them! . . . 

But Lot was very tired after his talk with Steyn. 
It all whirled before his mind, it swam before his 
eyes, which gazed out at the white fairy-city, at 
Castellamare in the pearly distance. . . . Steyn 

had said so much to him, revealed to him so much 


382 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

that he did not know, so much that Lot would 
probably never have known but for Steyn, things to 
which he was a stranger, which were strange to him, 
but which nevertheless made him seize and grasp 
and understand all sorts of things, suddenly, sud¬ 
denly: sensations experienced as a child, in the little 
house in the Nassaulaan, Grandmamma’s house. 
. . . Yes, Steyn, in the confidence arising from 

their association, after first lunching together, had 
told him of the letter which he had read, in the act 
of tearing it up, with Adele Takma in the old 
gentleman’s study; and Lot, in utter stupefaction, 
had heard everything: Lot now knew . . . and 

thought that he alone knew, together with Steyn 
and Aunt Ad^e. . . . How terrible, those pas¬ 

sions of former days, of hatred, of love, of murder! 
He now saw, in that narrow drawing-room, each at 
a window, those two very old people sitting and 
waiting . . . waiting . . . waiting. . . . 

Now, now it had come, what they had so long waited 
for. . . . Now, now they were both dead. . . . 
Oh, to grow so old, under so heavy a life’s secret: 
he could never do it, he thought it too terrible! 
. . . And, gazing wearily into the pearly evening 

distance, which began to turn pink and purple in 
the reflection of the setting sun, he felt—he, the 
grandchild of those two murderers—felt dread 
descending upon him, gigantic, as a still invisible but 
already palpable, wide-winged shadow: the dread 
of old age. O God, O God, to grow so old, to wait 


THINGS THAT PASS 


383 

so patiently, to see things pass so slowly! ... It 
took away his breath; and he shivered, closed the 
window, looked out through the closed window. 
. . . Oh, he had not the passion that had filled 

those old people; his neutral-tinted soul would never 
let itself be tempted to any sort of passion; his 
disillusioned, nerveless, dilettante nature contem¬ 
plated the violent things of this life with a slightly 
bitter little smile, thought them superfluous, asked it¬ 
self, why? ... So heavy a life’s secret he would 
never have to bear, no; but there was so much else— 
so much melancholy, so much silent suffering and 
loneliness—that, feeling the shadowy dread sink 
down upon him, he asked: 

“ O God, O my God, can I ever grow so old? So 
old as those two old people were? . . . Is it 

possible that I shall slowly wither and fade, gradu¬ 
ally dying and dragging myself along, always with 
that same gnawing at my heart, always with that 
same sorrow, a sorrow which I cannot yet utter to 
anybody, to anybody . . . not even to Steyn 

. . . because I will not judge, because I can not 

judge . . . because Elly is right from her point 
of view . . . because she lives in what she is now 
doing and would pine if she always remained with 
me, by whose side she feels herself to be useless 
. . . aimless . . . aimless? ...” 

O God, no, let him not grow old, let him die 
young, die young and not, year after year, feel the 
dread pressing more and more heavily on his small, 


384 OLD PEOPLE AND THE 

vain soul, his soul so childishly terrified of what 
was to come! . . . Let him not, year after year, 
feel that dread gnawing more and more at his heart, 
like an animal eating his heart away, and let him 
not, for years and years on end, feel that silent sor¬ 
row weeping within him, never uttered or shown, 
not even to Elly, if she ever came back, because he 
would want to assure her with a smile that he under¬ 
stood her aspirations and respected them and ap¬ 
proved and admired them! 

Loneliness was all around him now: his father 
was gone, Steyn was gone; Elly was so far from 
him, in a sphere to which, despite her letters, he was 
so little able to follow her in thought, a sphere of 
terror and horror so great that he kept on asking 
himself: 

“ Can she do that? . . . Has she the strength 
to keep it up ? . . . Those hospitals ... the 
din of the battlefield thundering in her ears . . . 

the sufferings of the wounded . . . their cries 

. . their blood: could she hear and see all that 
. . . and devote herself . . . and act? . . 

When he saw it looming up out of her hurried let¬ 
ters, it was so terrible a vision that he did not see 
Elly in it: she faded and passed into somebody else, 
he did not know her, hardly knew her even in the 
photograph which she had sent him and in which he 
vacantly looked for his wife among a number of 
other Red Cross nurses. . . . No, in this photo¬ 
graph she looked neither like him nor Mamma: 


THINGS THAT PASS 385 

she was herself this time, another, some one quite 
different. . . . The energy of her undreaming, 

harder eyes startled him: in this portrait he saw, 
in a sort of bewildered ecstasy, a willing, a striving 
perhaps to transcend the bounds which she already 
saw before her! . . . Oh, was it possible that 

she might soon return, worn out, and fall asleep in 
his arms ? Had he the right to wish it, for himself 
. . . and for her? Ought he not rather to hope 

that she would persevere and live according to the 
career which she herself had chosen? Perhaps so 
. . . but to him it was such an unspeakable grief 
that she was not there, that she was not by his 
side, she whom he had come to love as he never 
thought that he could love! . . . 

And this made everything so lonely around him. 
What were a few pleasant, intelligent, artistic 
friends at Naples, with whom he chatted and dined 
now and again at a restaurant? And beyond that 
there was nothing, nothing; and that . . . that 

perhaps was how he would have to grow old: 
ninety-three, ninety-seven years old! Oh, how that 
dread shuddered, that shadowing dread, which 
would always grow colder and colder still, as he 
grew older! O God, no, no, let him die young, 
while still in the flower of his youth, though his 
life was morbid; let him die young! . . 

Even Mamma was not with him now! She was 
in London: there lay her last letter; and in her 
angry written words she complained that Hugh was 


OLD PEOPLE AND THE 


386 

such a man for girls, always out with girls, leav¬ 
ing her alone! . . . She saw John now and again, 
saw Mary now and again; but she suffered agonies 
because Hugh neglected her, though he always knew 
how to come to her when he wanted money! It was 
the first letter in which she expressed herself so 
angrily, unable to restrain herself, because she suf¬ 
fered so from the sting of jealousy in the flesh of 
her heart: jealousy because Hugh amused himself 
with other women, with girls, more than with his 
mother! And Lot pictured her, alone, spending a 
long, dreary evening in her room at the hotel, while 
Hugh was out, with his girls. . . . Poor Mamma 1 
. . . Was it beginning so early? But, now that 

she had Hugh, whom she worshipped, it would last 
as long as she had any money left . . . and only 

then, when it was all finished, would she come back 
to him, to Lot . . . and, if Elly had returned by 
that time, then she would be jealous of Elly! . . . 

Yes, that would be the future, without a doubt 
. . . Beyond a doubt, he had not seen Elly for 

the last time; beyond a doubt she would come back, 
wearied, and sleep, sleep off her weariness in his 
arms. . . . And he would see his mother again 

also: older, an older woman, worn out, penniless; 
and she would cry out her grief, cry out her grief in 
his arms. . . . And he, with a little laugh of dis¬ 
illusionment, would find a chaffing word of consola¬ 
tion . . . and the days would drag by, the things 

would pass . . . pass very, very slowly . . , 


THINGS THAT PASS 387 

not full of red remorse and hatred, passion and 
murder, as they had passed for those two very old 

people . . . but full of an inner canker, inner 

grief and inner, painful suffering, which he would 
never express and which would be his secret, his, 
his secret: an innocent secret, free from all crime 
and other scarlet things, but as torturing as a hidden, 
gnawing disease. . . . 

It was evening now. Well, he would not go out 
to look for his friends. He would stay indoors, 

sup off a couple of eggs. . . . It was late; and 

the best way to forget was to light the lamp cosily 
. . . and to work, to work quietly, in his loneliness. 
. . . Come! He had made the room look homely; 
there were green plants and white plaster casts 
and warm-coloured pieces of drapery; there were 
fine brown photographs on the walls; and he had a 
big table to write at and the lamp was burning 
nicely now, after spluttering a little at first. . . . 

Come, to work: his dilettante work, the work which 
he could do best. . . .To recast and rewrite 

those articles on the Medicis—O sweet memories 
of Florence!—that was his work for this evening. 
. . . Come, every one must be the best judge of 

his destiny: Elly of hers, he of his; and that this 
was so was really not worth distressing yourself 
for all your life long. There were beautiful and 
interesting things left, especially in Italy; and 
spring in the south was such an undiluted joy. . . . 
Come, let him soak himself in it now, quietly and in 


THINGS THAT PASS 


388 

solitude . . . and work, work hard and forget. 
. . . There was nothing like work: it took your 

thoughts off yourself and all those dreadful things; 
and, though you withered and faded in working, 
still you withered and faded with no time for re¬ 
pining. . . . And yet it was terrible, terrible 

. . . that one could become as old as Grand¬ 

mamma had become ... as Mr. Takma had 
become! . . . Well, suppose he wrote a novel: a 
novel about two old people like that . . . and 

about the murder in Java? 

He smiled and shook his head: 

“ No,” he thought, almost speaking aloud, “ it 
would be too romantic for me. . . . And then 

there are so many novels nowadays: I’ll keep to 
my two. . . . That is enough, more than enough. 
Better by far rewrite the Medici series. . . .” 

And, as the chill of sunset was over and the 
starry night outside was growing sultry, he flung 
open the windows again, drew a deep breath and sat 
down to his big table, by his bright lamp. . . . 

His fair and delicate face bent low over his papers; 
and, so close to the lamp, it could be seen that he 
was growing very grey at the temples. 


THE END 



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